


Whumptober 2020

by under_my_blue_umbrella



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith, Star Trek: Picard, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Gen, Humor, Hurt Aramis | René d'Herblay, Hurt Athos, Hurt Cristóbal Rios, Hurt Porthos, Hurt d'Artagnan, Hurt/Comfort, Strike Whumptober, Whump, Whumptober, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:47:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 39,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26645506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/under_my_blue_umbrella/pseuds/under_my_blue_umbrella
Summary: A collection of ficlets for Whumptober 2020 covering my three current favorite fandoms.I've never done Whumptober before, and I can only hope I'm doing this correctly. I'm also not expecting to actually do 31 daily prompts, but I'll keep going until I run out of steam.I'll be posting in the following repeat pattern: Cormoran Strike - Star Trek: Picard - The Musketeers.Check the chapter titles for 'your' fandom.Whatever. Here comes the hurt.
Relationships: Agnes Jurati/Cristóbal Rios, Athos & Aramis & Porthos & d’Artagnan, Robin Ellacott & Cormoran Strike, Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 431
Kudos: 227
Collections: Strike & Ellacott Whumptober 2020, Whumptober 2020





	1. Let's Hang Out Sometime (Cormoran Strike)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike's hanging out in a place that's too cold even for his iconic coat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompts covered: #1 hanging #21 hypothermia

_Stop staring at me._

Strike gave the carcass hanging next to him a hateful look. Dangling from a chain on a meat hook, just like the detective, the dead pig’s empty eye sockets were on one level with Strike’s eyes, and he gave an involuntary shudder. Kicking his legs, he rotated away from the grim sight - only to be met by a likewise eviscerated gaze on the other side. This pig, its slashed throat gaping, seemed to be _grinning_ at him.

 _I’m starting to hallucinate_ , Strike called himself to order. _The fucking cold._

At least the sub-zero temperatures in the butcher’s shop had eventually numbed the pain in his wrists. In fact, he could no longer feel his hands or the blood trickling down his forearms into the sleeves of his coat. The chain had bitten into his skin, and his efforts at freeing himself had only made things worse. When he looked up, his hands were two puffy and bluish appendages that seemed to have nothing to do with him anymore.

He could still feel his shoulders, though. Both joints felt as if they were about to pop, muscles and tendons screaming, and a burning sensation was fanning across his ribcage. Breathing was becoming increasingly difficult, as the relentless pull on his chest muscles widened his ribcage, rendering each inhalation more shallow than the former. Dazedly, Strike wondered what would happen first: dislocation or suffocation. At least the latter would be painless.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he swore feebly.

Below him, on the tiled floor, the cracked screen of his mobile phone lit up as it vibrated with an incoming call. Chin on his chest, he could make out the caller ID.

_Robin._

He’d lost count how many times she’d already tried to reach him, and he’d run out of ideas of how to try and get down from this _bloody_ meat hook and answer her call. Straddling the carcass closest to him to hoist himself up and off the hook hadn’t worked due to his false right foot. Without the benefit of a full calf muscle, he just couldn’t dig the artificial heel into the meat deep enough to create leverage. And although his disability had resulted in solid upper body strength, he was too heavy to swing himself up and slip the chain off the hook. 

Shouting for help would have been useless. The butcher’s shop had been closed for the night, pitted into darkness safe for a few security lights when they’d strung him up and left him to die. Bitterly, Strike’s gaze slid to the industrial grinder on the other side of the room. Disposing of his corpse would not be a problem once he’d frozen into a six-foot-four popsicle.  
Below him, the phone was buzzing again, and, once more, Robin’s call went to voicemail after thirty seconds of ringing. His partner knew something was wrong. Otherwise, she wouldn’t keep ringing him.

 _Call Wardle_ , he sent her a telepathic message across London. _Get him to locate my phone by GPS._

Once again, he cursed himself for turning off the 'search my iPhone' function in the settings. He kept it deactivated for security reasons, of course, not wanting to risk getting followed or giving his position away to anyone who had an interest in him. Robin would’ve been smart enough to log into his account and ping his GPS. But he’d cut that safety rope.

_Stupid._

Groaning, he pulled himself upward a little to draw a deeper breath. His arms shook with the effort, and when he dropped down again, unable to hold himself up for longer than a few seconds, something in his shoulder gave with a sharp snap. He yowled, eyes watering from the pain.

“Ahh, _shit_ , Christ!” He cursed, his breath billowing in a white cloud. The pain was bad, zinging through his arm and upper back, somehow even more pronounced by the cold. He clenched his teeth and tried to breathe through it, to let his good arm take more of his weight, but he’d run out of strength, and he couldn’t draw enough of the icy air into his lungs to fuel his stiff muscles. In spite of himself, he felt a few tears spill down his cheeks, hot on his cold skin. 

_Come on, Robin_ , he pleaded. _Come on!_

He could imagine her in a patrol car with Wardle, shouting at the policeman to drive faster, her Yorkshire accent thick with urgency, her face pink and bright eyes flashing as she kept dialing his number. She would still be wearing the workout clothes she’d had on this morning to follow Fitbit, as she’d dubbed the mark of their current case: skin-tight black leggings and a matching top that hugged her curves in just the right places, and a baseball hat to cover her memorable hair, tied back in a ponytail. The smell of her hair - he remembered it, would never forget after he’d buried his nose in it at her wedding. 

_Roses._

As the pain seemed to settle at a level he could manage - if he stayed still, hanging limply from his hook - he noticed that his fear was lessening. It wasn’t a good sign. Exhaustion was turning into sleepiness, and he had stopped shivering at some point. The grey shapes of the machinery and the cutting tables around him seemed to blur further in the darkness. 

_Oxygen deprivation? Hypothermia? Probably both._

Strike blinked and forced himself to stay awake. He wasn’t ready to give in yet. Not while there was still a chance that he could hug her again. Inhale that scent. And, this time, not let her go. 

Silver spots were beginning to flicker in the dusk. Pixels, dancing in the cold like fireflies. Strike’s head swam as he sucked in another breath. His shoulder answered with a stab that traveled all the way to his sternum. His heart gave a sudden jolt before returning to its slowing throb. The room began to slowly spin around him. Strike felt his eyelids grow heavy and the cold air crystallize in his nostrils. 

_Breathe. Stay… awake…_

He did. For another few minutes, another hour - who knew? But the pain eventually gave way to unexpected warmth. A comfortable coziness lured him in and embraced him, and all of a sudden he thought that this was easy… letting go… and his eyes slid closed… 

_Roses._

~~~~~~~~~~~

 _Disinfectant._

The smell was almost overpowering when he woke, and flashbacks cascaded through his mind as he blinked his eyes open, heart racing.

Afghanistan. Helmand. The Viking.

_Roses._

“Hey.”

Robin sat by his bed, hair glinting red-gold in the neon lights of what had to be a hospital room. The sight anchored him immediately.

“Hey,” he croaked back, gathering his bearings while bloody memories faded back into the desert they had sprung from. 

“How are you feeling?” Robin gave him a soft smile.

“I don’t know,” he said hoarsely, looking down at himself and shifting to gauge the condition he was in. “Have I lost any more parts?”

“Fortunately, you haven’t.” Robin’s smile was a bit shaky. “But it was a close call.”

She pointed at his hands. Both wrists were bandaged, and his fingers were swollen and had a bluish tint. When he tried to curl them into fists, they felt stiff, and pain flared up in his right shoulder.

“Oh, you shouldn’t do that,” Robin said apologetically as Strike, hissing, clutched his right arm and the sling it was settled in. “You tore a few things in your shoulder, and they couldn’t do the surgery yet. They wanted to wait until your body temperature had returned to normal.”

Strike gritted his teeth. “Fantastic.” 

Now that Robin mentioned it, he noticed the steady warmth emanating from a heating blanket they’d stuck underneath him and some sort of probe taped to his chest, apparently relaying his thawing status to a monitor next to the bed. From the number he could make out, he was still a little below par. Which might explain the chill he felt crawling through his limbs.

“Who… who got me out of there?” Strike asked. He didn’t have any memory of a rescue.

Robin’s eyes turned serious. “Wardle and I did. Traced your phone and got there just in time. You… you were barely breathing when we found you. And you were so cold, I thought…” She trailed off, shuddering at the memory, and Cormoran felt his heart clench.

“Cormoran,” she said quietly, “would you do me a favour?”

Of course he would. _Anything._

“What?”

“Would you turn your bloody 'search my iPhone' app on?!” 

Strike blinked, swimming in sudden warmth and a bit of pain and feeling grateful and like a guilty bastard at the same time.

“Yeah,” he replied softly and held Robin’s furious, watery gaze. “Yeah. I will.”


	2. In The Hands Of The Enemy (Star Trek: Picard)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For once, Rios wouldn’t mind being subjected to the EMH’s antics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts: #2 collars, kidnapped #5 rescue #7 support #12 broken bones
> 
> My first time writing for this fandom, although I’ve been a long term Trekkie and grew up on TNG. I can only hope I did our brooding existentialist spaceman justice!

_“What is the nature of your medical emergency?”_

Rios could imagine the EMH flickering into existence beside him, asking his ridiculous question even while looking at the bone sticking out of Cris’ arm. Of course, the hologram had been programmed to go through a standard catalogue of inquiries, but after several years of service aboard _La Sirena_ , including a variety of medical emergencies (all of them involving Rios, the only crew member with an actual human body), Cris had a feeling the EMH had stuck to that question only to annoy him.

How he wished he’d annoy him now. 

Cradling his broken arm, he gingerly shifted to find a better position leaning against the spiky wall of rock that made up his prison cell. Not that there was a lock or even a door. Not even a force-field. The cave-like structure had a roughly triangular shape, its tip opening to a corridor that disappeared into a right turn. It was mocking Rios to get up and run, but even if the pain in his arm didn’t make him gag at the simplest movement, the collar around his neck kept him from even trying.

Oh, he _had_ tried, of course. He’d pushed himself to his feet, breathing through the agony that lit up in his arm, and taken a few unsteady steps to the exit. But, nearing some sort of invisible trigger, he’d felt the thin, cool band around his neck starting to hum in warning. And then the pain had hit him. Not like an electric shock. That was child’s play compared to the searing, all-consuming wave that had travelled through his blood and bones - broken or whole - while refusing to grant him the mercy of unconsciousness. All he’d been able to do was drop to the ground and ride it out, waiting for the agony to pass or for death to _please please_ end it. 

It had passed, eventually, after seconds or minutes or hours; he couldn’t be sure. He’d fallen asleep after, right where he’d dropped, and dragged himself back to the furthest wall of his cell when he’d woken again, shaking and with his arm pounding as he tried not to move it. Whatever technology was behind that _fucking_ collar - he was not going to test it again.

Thus, he’d resorted to waiting. Waiting for his crew (he had a crew now, he reminded himself) to either break him out or get the Hul’t’arah what they wanted: six tons of Anthysium, a rare mineral from a small planet in the Delta Quadrant. Rios had no clue what the fuck the Hul’t’arah were planning on doing with it - it was mainly used as a medicinal ingredient - and, honestly, he didn’t care right now. All he wanted was to get out of here before his arm could fester and fall off.

Stupid enough of him to let himself get captured in the first place. Even more stupid to put up a fight when two hairy, six-eyed, seven-foot tall humanoids with the strength of an ox had you by the arms. He’d paid for his resistance with a casual twist of his wrist that had snapped his ulna and radius like twigs, one jagged bone end sickeningly penetrating his skin. He’d screamed. He’d thrown up. He’d become used to the sight and the pain in the last… what? Two days? Three? 

But he had a crew now, he kept telling himself as his stomach churned from hunger and pain and the open wound on his arm wept suspiciously milky fluid onto his dirt-encrusted pants. A crew that consisted mainly of holograms, but with the recent addition of a little blonde doctor who’d stuck around, an old former Star Fleet Admiral who frequently booked him as a pilot and a recovering addict who sometimes came along for the ride. 

They weren’t exactly the cavalry, but they were on board of _La Sirena_ , and he was pretty certain they would not just let him rot down here.

And they didn’t. Later, when he’d curled up into a ball against the onset of fever chills, his arm throbbing with every heartbeat, he was roused from his haze by noises outside his cell. Animalistic grunts. The hiss of phasers being fired. Bodies dropping to the ground.

Two figures stepped into his cell, and in the murky darkness, Rios recognized the wild curls before Raffi squatted down in front of him, Soji at her side.

_Soji?_

“Cris, babe, we’ve got to go. Can you stand?”

Raffi helped him uncurl and flinched at the sight of his arm. It was Soji who hooked him under on his good side and easily, gently pulled him to his feet.

Rios gasped a Spanish curse when a wave of pain rolled over him. His head swam.

“I c-can’t get out of here,” he stammered. “I can’t… the collar.” He stretched his neck to display it. “It’s tr-triggered when I-“

But Soji was already on it. Her free hand closed around the thin band, and Rios felt a tickling sensation, then heard a crack, like wood splitting in heat, and the collar fell away.

Raffi kicked its broken halves aside and carefully slung her arm around Rios’ other side. In spite of the women’s support, he felt his knees threatening to buckle.

He shook his head.

“I can’t w-walk.”

“You don’t have to, babe.”

Raffi plucked something rectangular from her belt and attached it to Rios’ chest like a com badge.

A flickering pillar erupted above their heads.

“Channel established! Three ready for transport!” She spoke loudly, locking eyes with Soji.

“Aye, Raffi,” Picard’s voice, distorted, sounded from a distance. “Hold on tight.”

Picard’s warning was justified. This transport was a rough ride that had nothing to do with the seamless blink-of-an-eye relocation of molecules Rios was used to. As Raffi and Soji held him by his belt and around his back, he felt a wrenching sensation travelling through his body. They had to be breaking through some kind of force field. He wasn’t sure if he screamed - there seemed to be no air in his lungs, in the spray of pixels that _was_ his lungs as his body was dissolved and then reassembled in a dizzying whoosh. Every cell in his body burned when he landed on a hard surface, eyes closed against the pain. Hands were on him immediately, and then he finally heard it:

“What is the nature of your- oh, _bloody hell!_ ”

It was the permission Rios needed to sink into unconsciousness.

***

He woke to the smell of very clean surfaces, humidified oxygen and Agnes. Her hand was at his cheek when he opened his eyes. Her face - tired worry lighting up - appeared above him, haloed by circular ceiling lights. 

_Sickbay._

“Hey,” Agnes said softly, mouth widening into a grin.

“Hey.” _Dios_ , he sounded awful.

“How are you feeling?” 

Rios swallowed, looking down at himself. Most of his body was covered by a medical blanket, but he could see - even if not feel - his injured arm. It was encased in a holographic ossifier that was blinking and whirring away as it knit his bones back together. Underneath the blanket, he felt his skin prickle where the biobed’s micro-injectors fed medication into his system. An oxygen clip tingled under his nose. There was no actual pain, but his whole body felt heavy and flattened to the bed as if coming out from under a serious illness.

_Mierda._

“I guess- ” He had to clear his throat. “I guess I’ll be al- “

“You will be perfectly fine, Captain Rios,” the EMH chimed in, materialising by the bed. “Now that the sepsis is abating and the compound fracture in your arm is fusing. Although we did have a bit of a close call when your kidneys were attempting to shut down - a process, which, quite fortunately, I was able to reverse in time.”

Rios rolled his eyes at the hologram’s self-indulgent gloating. Agnes chuckled.

Weakly, Rios lifted his good hand and waved it at the EMH. “Deactiv-”

“ _That_ won’t work,” the hologram said with barely covered smugness. “Not until your body functions have returned to a satisfactory level. Remember?” He pointed at himself with a tricorder that had appeared in his hand out of thin air. “Emergency hologram. Self-activates until the emergent situation has been fully resolved. It hasn’t.”

He fucking _smirked_. Rios felt his head beginning to ache. 

Frowning convincingly, the EMH looked at Rios’ vitals projected against the wall of the cubicle. 

“Your blood pressure and cortisol output are elevated,” the hologram observed, immediately wielding the tricorder to point it at Rios. “Are you experiencing any kind of discomfort?”

 _Yes,_ Rios thought, _it’s called ‘annoyance’._

“No,” he said as firmly as possible, when Agnes looked at him with new worry. “I’m fine.”

“Still,” The EMH replied, checking the tricorder’s readings with exaggerated concentration. “I would like you to get more rest. Your body has been through a serious trauma and needs to repose.”

Rios would have liked to roll his eyes again, but it hurt his head too much, so instead he merely sighed while Agnes, instinctively, stroked his forehead. 

“He’s right,” she said gently. “You should sleep. You look exhausted. And you’re not missing out on anything. Picard, Enoch and Emmett have things under control.”

_The old man, his Irish fanboy and the tattoed narcoleptic._

Rios’ headache intensified. He closed his eyes with a groan. 

“Right, that’s enough.” 

Something beeped and, alarmed, Rios tore his eyes back open.

“ _Oye!_ You’re not going to inject me with-“

_Too late._

He heard the hiss of the hypo spray and felt its cool contents permeate the skin of his neck. The last thing he registered before sleep took him was the EMH’s sorrowful remark:

“He _really_ doesn’t get any nicer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to all Chileans. My one year of Spanish back in the Stone Age didn’t cover Chilean swear words! (They never teach you anything useful, do they?!)


	3. My Way Or The Highway (The Musketeers)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This Whumptober fic is (not) sponsored by Peltor protective ear gear, but it really should be. 😉

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompts: #3 held at gun point, forced to their knees, #25 ringing ears

“On your knees!”

Athos didn’t have any choice. His eyes on Aramis’, who was staring at him and Athos’ captor from ten feet apart, he complied. The rocky ground dug into his knees, and, his hands tied behind his back, he almost lost his balance kneeling down. The pressure of the pistol against the back of his head intensified.

“You don’t have to do this,” Aramis implored, hands raised appeasingly at the man holding Athos at gunpoint. “You can let him go and walk away from this!”

Behind Athos, Furet chuckled madly.

“D’you think I’m stupid? You’re Musketeers. You can’t let me go. And tell _him_ to stay where he is! _Not one single step further!_ ”

A few feet behind Aramis, d’Artagnan froze. He, too, had dropped all of his weapons and had been moving with the caution of one approaching a rabid animal.

“Alright, I’m not moving,” he reassured Furet. “Just… don’t shoot him. We can talk.”

“We’re DONE talking!” Furet screeched, and Athos tensed, waiting for the pistol to go off and the ball to enter the back of his skull. He forced himself to keep his eyes open, firmly set on his brothers. If he was going to die, the last thing he wanted to see was them. 

“We’re not, we’re not!” Aramis shouted, voice barely wavering. “No one knows we found you. No one but us. If you let him go, we won’t tell anyone! You can take our horses! We won’t be able to follow you. There’s money in the saddle bags. Take it!”

It wasn’t like Aramis to plead. And not like d’Artagnan to simply stand there and watch. They were buying time. Heart in his throat, Athos hoped it was enough for-

“ATHOS!”

Several things happened at once. At d’Artagnan’s shout, Athos ducked sideways and heard someone slamming into Furet. _Porthos?_ Furet’s pistol went off, and pain _exploded_ in Athos’ right ear. He fell on his side, clutching his head with his hands. His ear was ringing, and, through a fog of noise and pain, he saw Aramis and d’Artagnan come running. D’Artagnan disappeared from his wavering sight, somewhere behind him, while Aramis dropped to his knees next to him. Athos squinted at his friend through a curtain of involuntary tears. Something wet was trickling through his fingers. 

In front of him, Aramis’ lips moved, his face tense with worry, but Athos couldn’t hear a thing. Bells were tolling in his head, _screeching_ , in fact, and his ear felt as if someone had driven a hot poker into it. Athos was sure he moaned - he felt the vibration in his throat - but even that was inaudible above the din. 

Aramis was cradling his head now, turning it and triggering a spell of vertigo. The ground seemed to dip underneath Athos. 

“...!”

He heard _something_ now. The ringing, while breaking up into discordant, overlapping sounds, was less deafening now, and Aramis’ voice seemed to come through, at least in his left ear. Not distinct words, but a muffled underwater version of someone speaking very loudly with him.

Squinting tears from his eyes, unable to to get up, Athos rolled his head in Aramis’ cradling hands and waved his hand at his friend’s rapidly moving mouth.

“I can’t hear you,” he said, his own voice a faint murmur beneath the racket now. “I can’t-” He swallowed a surge of nausea.

The underwater voice again, becoming a little clearer as Aramis, nodding, coaxed him into a sitting position. Someone’s arms were pushing him up from behind, and then he found himself leaning against a broad chest. A deep, rumbling burr confirmed that it was Porthos, but what he said was a mystery.

“... alright?!”

It was the first word that reached him, the first word he understood, issued by d’Artagnan who’d appeared in his line of vision now, consisting mostly of big, fearful eyes.

“..ou… right… thos?!”

Athos shook his head, very quickly realizing it was a bad idea. D’Artagnan seemed to bob in front of him, and was the ground tilting sideways? He gasped, groping for d’Artagnan’s arm as an anchor but missing it by an inch. Someone’s hands caught him around the shoulders to steady him.

“Whoa ...ful! Best n… move.” 

_Aramis._

His instructions still seemed to come from a distance, but they were finding loopholes in the ringing that was still ricocheting in Athos’ skull. Athos took his hand from his ear and looked at it.  
His glove was smeared with blood, and he could feel a wet trail running down his neck.

“Rupture… drum.” 

The information took much longer to process than it should have but finally made sense: He’d not been shot in the head - he’d merely ruptured his eardrum. That wasn’t so bad, was it? 

“...me?”

Athos squinted at Aramis who seemed to expect an answer.

“What?” It was entirely uncomfortable: He heard himself speak, but only on his left side. His right ear felt as if stuffed with cotton, and the clamouring in his head drowned out half of the sounds that _did_ reach him.

“I asked if you… hear me?” 

Aramis over-enunciated his words, accompanying them with exaggerated gestures, and it looked almost comical. Athos pondered laughing, but it would split his head, and the urge was likely born from hysteria, so he refrained from it. It was curious and a bit frightening how the right side of his head and face felt as if they were missing. 

“Yes. I can hear you,” he replied, wincing at the stuffy sensation of his voice in his head. “But it’s dull and… spotty.” 

He tried to poke at his ear, but Aramis immediately swatted his hand away.

“Leave it,” he warned. “You’ll make it worse.” 

Next to Aramis, still staring at him, d’Artagnan exhaled. 

“I thought you’d been shot in the head.” He, too, sounded distorted, his baritone split into several layers, but at least all of his words were coming through now. 

“Nah,” rumbled Porthos behind him, and his deep bass voice was less grating on Athos’ overwrought senses than the others’. “Got a skull made o’ steel. Balls bounce right off.” 

Laughing in relief, he slapped Athos’ shoulder from behind and almost brought him off-kilter. 

Athos rubbed at his ear, sceptically monitored by Aramis. The ringing was still there, but it was fading into the background, and his head had cleared a little. 

“Is Furet dead?” He wanted to look, but didn’t dare turn around yet. The ground was only just beginning to steady underneath him. He didn’t want to risk another spell of vertigo.

“Dead as a doornail,” Porthos reported. “An’ no loss.”

D’Artagnan wiped one hand across his forehead, an incredulous expression on his still-spooked face. “He was barking mad! I really thought he’d…” He trailed off.

Athos, adjusting to his one-sided hearing, gave their youngest an uplifting half-smirk. Then he turned to Aramis who’d begun dabbing at his neck with a handkerchief. 

“Is this…” Athos circled his ear with his finger. “...it’s not permanent, is it?”

“Can’t hear on that side?” Aramis didn’t sound surprised.

“No. Ringing. Nothing else.”

Aramis clucked his tongue in commiseration. 

“It’ll come back when your eardrum’s healed,” he said, sounding certain. “The pistol went off right next to your head. Popped it. Happened to me before, and I can hear perfectly fine. No reason to think it would be any different for you.” He rose and offered his hand. “Can you stand?”

Athos nodded. With Aramis’ help and a boost from Porthos, he got back to his feet. The dizziness hadn’t entirely dissipated, and he accepted Aramis' steadying arm around his back without protest. Carefully, he turned his head to look back at Furet’s body. By the crooked angle of the man’s head, he could tell that Porthos had broken his neck, either by slamming into him or by using his bare hands. It was a good thing the streetfighter was on the side of the angels.

“Let’s get you home,” Aramis urged him forward. “I want to clean that ear and make sure it can heal properly. And you should get some rest. Spend a night in the infirmary. You possibly have a concussion as well.” 

“What did you say?” Athos asked loudly.

“I said: YOU NEED TO REST!” Aramis nearly shouted at him, but when he looked at Athos, he was met by an amused smirk.

“Oh, you...! You heard me!” Aramis said, mildly appalled. 

Athos lifted one dramatic eyebrow and painted his face with ignorance.

“ _What?_ I can’t understand a single word you’re saying!” 

On Athos’ other side, d’Artagnan chuckled, and Porthos bit back a laugh. 

“YOU- … never mind,” Aramis sighed, but his face showed how the tension fell off him - off all of them, as they once more walked away from a scene that almost cost one of them his life. 

“Pretend all you want. But wait until Tréville hears about this.” It was Aramis’ who smirked now. “He’ll bite your ear off.”

The ringing in Athos ears was no match for Porthos’ roar of laughter.


	4. Running Out Of Time (Cormoran Strike)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin is stuck where no one wants to get stuck while still alive. But ‘cavalry’ starts with a ‘c’, and so does ‘Cormoran’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts: #4 buried alive, #5 rescue, #18 panic attacks

The phone had died hours ago, but Robin kept it clutched to her chest as she fought down another panic attack. Her shirt was sticking to her back, her heart was racing in her chest, and her diaphragm was rock hard and squeezing all air out of her lungs, making the tight space she was locked in feel even smaller. The phone was smeared with blood; she’d torn several fingernails scrabbling at the wooden planks above her, her knuckles split open from beating against the coffin lid - in vain. All she’d managed was to make earth rain down on her through the cracks, it’s moldy cemetery smell triggering a crying fit. And she’d used up precious air when she’d started screaming.

_Breathe._

That was what she told herself, what _Strike_ had told her, calm and reassuring, when the phone was still working and he’d kept her on the line while he, Wardle, Vanessa, Andy, Barclay - a whole search and rescue team, in fact - had been trying to find her location. 

Her _grave._

They’d all underestimated Redshirt, their unassuming, nondescript looking client who’d turned out to be a ruthless killer with a penchant for strawberry blonde women. Even Strike hadn’t seen it coming. Not until Redshirt had dragged her off, blind-folded, to only-god-knew-where and buried her alive, leaving her with an untraceable phone and five minutes of battery left to say her goodbyes.

“AAAAHHHHH!”

Robin screamed again and kicked against the confines of the wooden box. More dirt rained down, and a few pill bugs who scurried off into the dark corners.

At least she still had light. The torch was sturdy, equipped with three large batteries, and Robin knew its yellow pool was the one thing left tethering her to sanity. She hoped she’d run out of air before she ran out of light. Being plunged into pitch-black, below-ground darkness - it would push her over the edge.

_“I will find you,”_ Strike had promised, and although she had no idea how he wanted to achieve that, she held on to that promise and to the sound of his voice in her head. _I will find you._

There couldn’t be much time left. Even discounting the feeling of suffocation her anxiety attacks induced, she could tell the air surrounding her had taken on a thick, humid quality. It was warm, too. Forget the cliché of being buried in ‘cold, hard ground’. She was going to die marinated in her own sweat, stinking of sour-gone panic.  
Suddenly, a sound travelled to her from above. A faint thump. Again. And again.

_What was that? Was someone there?_

The sounds continued, in an irregular rhythm. 

“Hello?!” Robin took a breath as deep as she could. “HELLO?! IS ANYONE THERE?! HELP! I’M DOWN HERE!”

The thumping stopped, and Robin held her breath in dread.

_No. Nonono. Don’t go away. Don’t leave me here._

Perhaps it was Redshirt? Coming back to do what - dig her back out? Finish what he’d started?

The sounds returned, getting louder, gaining a sharper quality. The ground above her shook.

And then she realized that was indeed what was happening: someone _was_ digging. Right above her. Digging her up.

“I’M HERE!” She screamed again, hope flaring in her aching chest. Whoever this was, whatever they wanted - she would get out of here. To die? Or to be rescued? She barely cared. All that counted was to get out. “YES! I’M HERE! Oh, please - HERE!”

It took forever. By the time she started hearing voices - several, male and female - she’d begun to feel deceptively tired, and she was panting. The air had thickened further, and Robin was bathed in sweat, her face red and caked with dirt. The torch had weakened, its comforting shaft of light fading quickly. Any moment now, it would die completely, and she would be plunged into darkness.

_Hurry up,_ she thought, no longer screaming. Saving her breath to stay alive.

And then something hard and sharp broke through the earth and hit the coffin lid. One board cracked, showering Robin with clumps of earth and roots. She heard a voice now, muffled through the wood and earth.

“Robin?!”

_Strike._

“I’M HERE!” 

_I will find you._

He’d kept his word.

She coughed, and starbursts broke in her vision, but hysterical laughter bubbled up in her. She coughed and laughed and cried and, through her own sobbing, kept hearing Cormoran’s voice that called for her.

A few more moments of hectic shoveling and scraping and shouting above her (she recognized Barclay and Wardle and… Vanessa?), and then a crowbar was rammed between two of the boards, and, raining splinters, the wood broke away and was tossed aside by someone’s big hands.

“Robin!”

The same big hands reached for her as she squinted into the blinding haloes of multiple torch lights and breathed in delicious, fresh air. She was being lifted - gently, urgently - and pulled up and out of the coffin, up into strong arms and into someone’s lap. Pressed against a broad chest, she smelled wool and sweat and _Benson & Hedges_ and a whiff of _Pour Un Homme._

“Robin, look at me! Are you okay?”

Those hands wiped hair and tears and dirt out of her eyes, and she looked up into green eyes and into a pale, freckled face that seemed to have lost its fight against a beard.

“Robin! Talk to me!”

Somewhere behind him, she heard Wardle shout into his phone, ordering an ambulance, and Vanessa squatted down by her side, looking concerned.

“You alright, luv?”

“Yeah,” she sniffed, as steadily as she could. “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m fine.”

Strike exhaled, his breath cool on her flushed face. “Thank _fuck,_ ” he said, his voice breaking a little. “I thought…” 

He broke off and, for a moment, he just held her. Robin fought the urge to curl up and bury her nose in his jumper and simply stay there, alive and safe. Instead, she pushed herself up into a sitting position. Strike’s arm remained around her shoulder.

“I’m fine,” she said again, to him, to Vanessa, to an out-of-breath Barclay with a shovel still in his hand and to Wardle barking into his phone but nodding at her. 

And she _was_ fine. 

“Home or hospital?” Strike asked, concerned but relieved. 

“Denmark Street,” she said with a watery smile and wiped her sleeve across her nose. “Take me home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m afraid Robin will have to start doing her CBT exercises again. Sorry.


	5. 5. Where Do You Think You're Going? (Star Trek: Picard)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _La Sirena_ is under attack, and Rios and his holos have to make a quick getaway. Things don't go as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts: #5 on the run, failed escape, #7 carrying #14 fire

A cargo box slithered past Rios, and sparks flew from the navigational control as _La Sirena_ took another hit. The ENH flinched but stoically remained at his post. The hull of the ship shuddered. From the lower deck, the smell of molten plastic and hot metal wafted onto the bridge. 

_“Chesumadre!”_

Cursing, Rios furiously worked the controls and eased the rocking ship back into balance while letting it perform a backward flip.

“Emmet! Torpedos! _Ahora_!”

A screen to his left flickered and died, but, muttering something unfriendly in Spanish, the Emergency Tactical Hologram ignored it. He pushed a series of buttons and stared out the bridge’s panoramic window with unusual alertness. The large Beltranian cruiser that had attacked them was right in front of them now, it’s warp drive within _Sirena’s_ tactical sights. 

“Emmett!”

The ETH patiently waited for the holographic crosshairs to lock - and fired. A ball of flames bloomed at the hostile ship’s rear, and the shockwave slammed into _La Sirena_ before Rios could glide his damaged ship out of the danger zone. Alarms blared. 

“Ean!” Rios barked into the com. “Is the warp drive still online?”

 _“Aye, captain,”_ the engineering hologram responded, voice crackling with static interference, _“but I cannae say how much longer. Core temperature is reaching critical levels.”_

“Copy that,” Rios responded, biting down on his cigar with fierce determination. “Enoch! Set a course to CentraX343, zeta quadrant!”

“Aye, sir!” In spite of the tense situation, the navigational hologram looked disturbingly thrilled. His fingers flew across his controls. 

“Course set and locked, captain.”

In front of them, the cloud of smoke cleared, and the Beltranian ship, somehow still functional, was turning and opening its torpedo launch hatches.

“ _Caram_ \- Maximum warp!” Rios shouted. “Everybody hold on!”

The ship seemed to freeze for a moment, alarms and hissing sparks and the heat of fire somehow suspended in time, and then Rios was pressed into his seat as the warp drive propelled them into a different corner of the galaxy.

When they slowed, Rios barked at the ETH: “Emmett! Any hostile activity?”

_“No. Nada. Estamos solos.”_

“ _Bueno_.” Rios exhaled. He pushed out of his Captain’s chair, looking around at his worse-for-wear ship. “Enoch! Damage report!”

The ENH checked his screen with flying fingers. Even over his shoulder, Rios could see several of the readings blinking red. 

“Deflector shields are down,” the hologram confirmed. “Aft scanners are malfunctioning. Electricity is down in the mess and starboard quarters. And it looks like Ean has a problem with the warp drive.”

“ _Qué más…!_ Ean?!” 

_“Aye, Captain.”_

Something was seriously wrong with _Sirena’s_ com system as well. The engineer’s voice sounded distorted. Rios clenched his jaw around his cigar. 

“What’s going on down there, Ean?”

_“The warp core is nae cooling down properly, Captain. Scanner shows a short circuit, but I dinna ken- something else is going on.”_

Rios sighed.

“Emmett, Enoch?” 

The two holographic crew members swung their startingly human gazes around to Rios, one of them infinitely bored, the other one perky.

“I’m going down there myself.” Rios pointed at the metal stairs leading to the lower decks and the engine bay. “You have the bridge. Keep an eye out for hostiles and let me know when we approach Centra.”

The ENH clapped his hands in delight. The ETH yawned. 

Rios rolled his eyes.

As he climbed down the stairs, his adrenaline slowly waned, entirely being replaced by a dark anger. It was directed at himself, mostly, for not smelling that something about this commission had been fishy. He should’ve smelled Beltranians behind it. _Estúpido_. They had betrayed him and damaged his ship. His _Sirena_. His _home_. Chewing angrily on his extinguished cigar, he opened the hatch to the engine bay.

A hot, chemical smell hit him. Overheated composite. Scorched circuit boards. Ailing technology.

The EEH was standing by the warp core, running a handheld scanner across the welded seams of the plasma port. Under his woolen cap, sceptically narrowed eyes were trained on the tool’s small screen.

“Did you find the damaged circuit board?” Rios asked.

“I did.” The hologram stood, scratching the back of his head. “But the core temperature is still too high, and I cannae tell wh-“

_BOOM!_

One of the plasma tanks exploded. Glass flew like bullets, and Rios felt shards embedding themselves in the side of his face and neck when he instinctively turned away from the blast. Beside him, the EEH disintegrated. Plasma rained down, splashing Rios’ left side, the acid burning through his clothes, into his skin. The fumes bit into his lungs when he gasped and fell, hitting a console that he clutched like a life buoy.

Plasma coagulated around Rios in puddles, biting into the floor paneling with a hiss. All he could do was hang on to the console and try to remain on his feet.

The com system crackled to life. 

_“Ean, que pasa?!"_

_Emmett._

Rios _meant_ to speak, but all he could manage was a pained gurgle. He couldn’t breathe. His skin was on _fire._ A thousand blades were stabbing into his arm and side. 

_“Captain?”_ Enoch sounded uncommonly concerned now. _“Are you alright?”_

“No, he’s no’!”

 _Ean._

He’d flickered back into existence and hit an emergency button. Foam sprayed down and hazmat filters sprang to life.

“Captain!” 

A few strides through the chaos, his holographic boots unaffected by the acid, and the hologram was at Rios’ side, grabbing him around the hips to keep him upright.

Rios moaned.

“We need a wee bit o’ help down here,” the EEH shouted. “Where’s Em-?”

“What is the nature of your- …oh _no!”_

Conjured from thin air, the EMH pulled his hands from his pockets and rushed to Rios’ aid.

Through the pain biting into his face and neck and burning down his arm, Rios wasn’t aware of much else. Breathing hurt. _Everything_ hurt, and he neither had the will nor the strength to ward off the EMH descending on him. He heard the warbling of a tricorder as the EMH fired questions at him that he couldn’t answer. A hypospray was pressed to his neck, and as the pain lost its blinding edge, he felt himself being lifted and carried, fireman-style. When Rios attempted a weak protest, he was shushed by a Scottish burr. 

“Dinna fash, Captain. You’ll be right as rain.”

Their trek ended where all days like this seemed to end: with Rios in a biobed, hopped up on the EMH’s hypospray cocktails, medical equipment whirring around him and a smug Emil hovering and fussing. Dropping in and out of consciousness for several... hours?...days?... he once thought he saw Enoch sitting on a stool next to him, blathering cheerfully, and he could have sworn he felt Emmett’s tattoed hand squeezing his arm, but it must have been the drugs. Later, he would remember the engineering hologram stopping by, obviously to fix a technical problem. He even imagined seeing that _fucking_ hospitality hologram sneaking into sickbay with a bouquet of flowers at some point, but when he woke up for good the next time, they were nowhere to be seen. It must have been a hallucination. 

When he walked back onto the bridge days later under the observant gaze of the EMH, his crew was at their posts and the ship was in pristine condition. Any damage Sirena had sustained during the attack had been repaired. 

“Welcome back, Captain,” the ENH chirped from his seat at the navigational controls. 

Across from him, Emmett stretched with a wide yawn and grunted while Ean emerged from under a console with a screwdriver and a grin on his face. 

When Rios sat down in his chair, Steward materialized by his side, handing him a cigar and performing a ridiculous little bow.

 _“Suficiente!”_ Rios groaned, grabbing the cigar and angrily waving the EHH away. “You’ve all had your fun! Can we now get back to business?” 

In a scarily synchronized gesture, all five holograms put their hands on their hips and shifted their facial features to a reproachful expression.

Rios rolled his eyes.

“Can we now get back to business, _please?_ ”

Five heads nodded at him in unison, and, while Rios grumbled something around his cigar, the holos went back to work with deceptively human smirks on their faces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more, apologies for my Spanish. I did what I could with google translate. Please, correct me if I messed up!
> 
> The Beltranians are another made-up species. I have no clue why they betrayed Rios or why they wanted to blow up his ship. Make up your own backstory if you will, but I don't think anyone really cares.
> 
> I decided to choose the alternative spelling for Ean (instead of 'Ian'). It simply matches better with Emil, Emmett and Enoch.
> 
> Got a little sappy there at the end. It wasn't intended, but I LOVE the holo squad, and I'm going to defend the idea that they love their Captain and take care of him, no matter how grumpy he is, until my very last breath.


	6. Please... (The Musketeers)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being nailed to the spot isn't our youngest musketeer's favourite pastime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts: #6 get it out #20 field medicine #31 torture
> 
> I wrote this today, and I usually sleep on new chapters before posting, but I'll fall behind on Whumptober if I do, so here it is.

“Hold still!”

D’Artagnan whimpered and struggled against his brothers’ grip. 

“Get it out, Aramis! Get it out, _please!”_ Tears were streaking down the lad’s face.

Aramis looked him straight in the eyes. “I will. But you _have_ to hold still or you’ll make it worse. You can do this! Porthos and Athos have got you.”

Biting down on his lower lip, d’Artagnan stopped squirming and nodded. On his knees, he was still shaking from pain and shock, but he settled into Porthos’ arms braced around his chest, and he let Athos hold his forearm down. 

Slowly and carefully, Aramis slid his dagger between D’Artagnan’s palm and the head of the nail that went straight through it. D’Artagnan shuddered, and Porthos and Athos tightened their grip on him. Aramis suppressed a surge of rage. It hadn’t been enough for those _bastards_ to rough the lad up. Before they’d left, they’d nailed his hand to a chopping block. Luckily, Aramis and the others had found him quickly, and Aramis said a prayer of thanks that the young Gascon hadn’t tried to tear himself loose. It would have ruined his sword hand forever. But they had to make quick work now. Their youngest had held it together bravely, but he was frightened and in severe pain, and he’d clearly reached the end of his rope.

“All right,” Aramis said calmly, catching the lad’s fearful gaze. “I’ll lever it out now. It’s going to hurt, and I’ll have to take it slow, but it’ll be over soon, and your hand will heal. However, you _mustn’t_ move, you hear me?”

Nostrils flaring, eyes, wide, d’Artagnan nodded again. His cheek was bruised, one eye swollen, and his lip was split, but all of that seemed to pale against the terror of having his hand nailed down, and Aramis couldn’t blame him. The lad was doing what he could to not fall apart, and Aramis looked forward to telling him how brave he’d been and how proud they were.

“Athos? Porthos?”

Athos, inscrutable under the brim of his hat, gave a curt nod. Porthos grunted in dark agreement. Aramis focused back on d’Artagnan.

“Ready?”

His little brother gave a shaky nod. 

With the edge of his blade, Aramis nudged the nail upward. D’Artagnan stiffened, eyes squeezing shut. Aramis repeated the motion. With every lift of the nail, d’Artagnan’s breathing quickened.

“Easy, pup.” Porthos, his cheek against d’Artagnan’s from behind, rumbled into his ear. “Easy. ‘e’s almos’ done.”

“Nnnnghhh...!”

Gritted teeth bared, d’Artagnan’s good hand flailed, looking for something to grasp. Athos caught it in his free hand, using only one arm to lock d’Artagnan’s injured one in place. D’Artagnan’s fingers whitened as he desperately clenched them around Athos’, but the older Musketeer neither flinched nor let go.

“I know,” he said, voice calm and steady. “I know. It’s nearly over.”

Aramis kept his eyes on what he was doing. He trusted Athos and Porthos, and he had to focus on keeping the nail straight as he maneuvered it out of d’Artagnan’s flesh. Looking at the Gascon’s tormented face would be a distraction, and, right now, he held his young friend’s fate in his hands. If he did this right, d’Artagnan would be swinging a sword only days from now. If he did it wrong, he would lose his hand.

Fresh blood welled up around the nail, forming a spider web of crimson rivulets as it trickled down to be soaked up by the wood. D’Artagnan’s whole body trembled in his friends’ grip, but he didn’t move. Aramis had a better view of the nail’s position and the injury now, and it didn’t look or feel as if the metal had gone through bone. Another half inch, and he would be able to pull it out.

Aramis repositioned the dagger and gave it another nudge. 

D’Artagnan bit back a sob.

Porthos shushed him gently, but the big man looked at Aramis in growing concern, and Athos’ cool eyes threw him a silent appeal. Their youngest couldn’t bear this much longer.

Aramis took a deep breath and grabbed the nail between his fingertips. With a sudden, forceful twist of the dagger, he pushed it upwards. D’Artagnan _screamed_ , and Athos and Porthos struggled to keep him from flailing. Aramis paid them no heed. Grunting fiercely, he pulled hard - and pulled the nail free. 

With a gasp, d’Artagnan tucked the injured limb against his chest, and Athos and Porthos let him. They held him loosely as, on his knees, he curled up around his bleeding hand and breathed hard between fading sobs.

Disgusted, Aramis tossed the bloody nail aside and hurried to pull a bandage from his supplies. 

“You did good,” he said, coaxing his patient to sit up a little. “Very good! Now let me see that hand.”

The Gascon lifted a sweat-streaked face and, still shaking, fought to regain his composure. He was still breathing hard, but defiance was flickering back into his brown eyes.  
Extending his hand, he let Aramis examine it. 

Porthos had released the lad from his protective embrace and sat back on his haunches, tipping his head back in relief and, possibly, saying a prayer of thanks. Athos, too, was giving d’Artagnan some space, but he squeezed his shoulder in a quiet gesture of respect before he stood up and resorted to silent looming.

“It doesn’t look too bad,” Aramis stated, inspecting the wound from both sides. “Can you move your fingers?”

Teeth gritted, d’Artagnan did.

“Good.” Aramis nodded and smiled. Immense relief flooded him. “Good,” he repeated, and, catching Athos’ gaze, he saw the same emotion, even if well-hidden, in his pale eyes. He, too, had known what was at stake. And judging by the way Porthos’ shoulders relaxed, they all had.

D’Artagnan managed a small smile as well. Except for the minor wounds on his face, he was starting to look like himself again. 

Aramis reached for a thin flask in his kit. 

“I’ll clean this quickly, and then wrap it up. I’m not putting in stitches. It’ll stop bleeding with a bit of pressure on it, and stitches may do more harm than good here. We’ll have to check for infection, but the nail wasn’t rusty. Keep that hand still for a few days, and it should heal quickly.”

D’Artagnan flinched when Aramis poured alcohol over the wound, but except for a sharp hiss, he didn’t waver. Carefully, Aramis wound a bandage around his hand.

“When can I hold a sword again?” 

Standing beside the Gascon, Athos gave a short laugh. It was such an uncommon sound that all three of them looked at him in surprise.

“And he’s back,” Athos provided with a smirk, adjusted his hat and turned on his heel to fetch their horses. Eyebrows raised in wonder, Porthos exchanged an amused glance with Aramis.

“What?” D’Artagnan looked at them quizzically. He had not been with them long enough to understand the weight of the moment.

“Nothing,” Aramis said lightly and pulled d’Artagnan to his feet. He unwound his sash from his waist and fashioned a sling out of it. Tying it behind d’Artagnan’s neck, he gave him an affectionate pat.

“Come on, soldier! Let’s get you home. When Treville hears about your bravery, that commission won’t be far off.”

D’Artagnan’s eyes lit up in his dirty face. 

“You think so?”

“I don’t think so. I’m sure.”


	7. I've Got You (Cormoran Strike)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How to manage Denmark Street 24's stairway when you've buggered your leg and don't have to do it on your own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompts: #7support, carrying #12 broken bones

“Push with the crutch and pull with your other arm.”

_Thwup._

_Hop._

“Good. That’s it. Again!” 

_Thwup._

_Hop._

“You’ve got it. Keep going!”

“Oh my God, this is _exhausting._ ”

“I know.”

“Oh _shit_ , sorry. I know you know, I just…”

“It’s fine. Come on! One more. Almost there.”

Robin sighs. She takes a deep breath and places her crutch on the next step while sliding her free hand up the handrail and gripping it firmly. The cast on her broken ankle seems to weigh a ton as she lifts her foot higher, making sure she won’t bump it against the step. It’s only two flights of stairs to their office, but she hasn’t even managed the first one, and it feels like a marathon.

“Alright, Robin.” Strike’s palm is pressed gently against the small of her back. He’s behind her, instructing her and ready to brace her in case she stumbles. She can sense his body heat and feel his breath coasting across the back of her neck. “Up you go.”

_Grunt._

_Thwup._

_Hop._

“I really don’t know how you do it,” she gasps, sweating and out of breath. “This is impossible!”

“Hey,” Strike answers, and she can almost hear his raised eyebrows behind her back. “Don't blame me! It was _you_ who insisted on going back to work! I told you to stay at home and rest your foot in your _ground level_ apartment.”

Robin turns as much as she dares to, precariously balanced on the stairs as she is, and glares at him.

“And for how long would that be? My stupid foot will take six weeks to heal, and we’re swamped. I can’t have you picking up my slack for _weeks_. We’re partners!”

She clutches the handrail a bit harder and let’s her foot sink to rest it on the step she’s navigating. The break is hurting, and her thigh is trembling. Her neck and shoulder ache. But she pulls herself together and, snorting angrily, vanquishes another step.

_Thwup._

_Hop._

Behind her, Strike mumbles something about the possibilities of remote working and how Robin might look a _bit_ conspicuous tailing their marks on crutches, and she feels that she’s about to snap at him for no other reason than the fact that he’s right. She bites her lip and rotates her burning shoulder.

“Sore?” He sounds kind and understanding all of a sudden, and it deflates her. How often has Strike navigated these stairs on crutches? How much strength and self-discipline must it take to manage his disability every day?

“Yeah,” she admits, cranking her neck.

“You know I could just ca-“

“You’re NOT going to carry me!” She interrupts him, twisting to look at him, taken a little aback by how close those green eyes are. “You’re going to bust up your knee, or we’ll both fall or-“

He shuts her up by reaching behind her back and hoisting her up into his arms. Just like that. Once more, Robin is reminded of his upper body strength and of the fact that he’s had years of practice living with an artificial leg. He grunts a little, and from the way his mouth tightens she can tell that this maneuver is putting considerable strain on Strike’s prosthetic leg. But she also sees the determined set of his jaw. 

“Cormoran,” she exclaims. “What on earth are you doing?! You’re gonna-“

“Shut it, Ellacott,” he replies with pretend gruffness and, with less difficulty than expected, begins to climb the stairs, carrying her in his arms. “We won’t get any work done buggering about in the staircase. You said it yourself: we’ve got cases lining up, and I can’t do it all on my own.”

He’s breathing heavily now, his smoker’s lungs struggling as much as his leg’s got to be. His climb is uneven; he sets his good leg on each step first, and Robin can tell that not being able to pull himself along by the handrail makes it much harder. But they’re almost at the top now and, frankly, scooted up against Strike’s broad chest and shoulder, his smell everywhere, isn’t the worst position she’s found herself in recently, so she keeps her mouth shut and concentrates on not letting the crutch dangling from her hand get in the way. 

To her surprise, Strike doesn’t immediately put her down when they’ve arrived but pushes through the door and, to Pat’s and Barclay’s eyebrow-arched astonishment, gallantly sets her down on the farting sofa which - not so gallantly - farts.

Flustered, Robin drops the crutch behind the sofa and runs her hand through her hair. Strike straightens and wipes his sleeve across his brow. 

“What?!” he snaps at his still-staring colleagues. 

Pat coughs and Barclay, emitting an ambiguous Scottish noise, refocuses on the file in his lap.

“You okay?” 

Strike catches Robin’s eyes with that scrutinizing, shockingly gentle gaze that he pulls up whenever it throws her most. It does now, too, and she looks away to rearrange her injured foot on the sofa. Although Pat’s typing has resumed, she can feel her observing them over the rim of her reading glasses.

“Yeah,” she says, breathlessly, although it’s been _him_ carrying _her_ and not the other way around. “Yeah, thanks.”

Strike nods formally.

“I’ll go fetch your other crutch before that idiot of a graphic designer trips over it.”

And then he strides out the office door, his uneven gait a little worse for wear, and for the first time since breaking her ankle Robin isn’t _quite_ as mad that it happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this one mostly on my phone, in a hair salon, waiting for the dye to set in. This is what I've become: desperate, and it's only day 7 of Whumptober! No haircut appointment tomorrow, and a team conference at the office. If anyone here is interested in me continuing these, please send cookies and valid excuses for writing fanfic at work...


	8. Where Did Everybody Go? (Star Trek: Picard)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rios brings a souvenir on board that no one asked for, least of all himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts: #8 isolation #21 infection
> 
> It's getting harder to put a new chapter up every day, so here's a new approach: This one's going to have a part two later down the line. This way, I can cover two days/prompts with an ongoing story and still have something to post today. In other words: stay tuned!

Agnes presses her hands against the thick, transparent wall that’s come down between the biobed cubicle and the lab. Rios, dragging himself across the small space on shaky legs, places his palms against hers, a world between them. A damp sheen covers his face, his hair is sticking up in sweaty clumps, and she thinks she can feel the fever emanating from his body through the three inches of hazmat-proof composite glass.

“I’m here,” she says, firmer than she thought herself capable of. “I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.”

Those deep brown eyes look into hers, glazed and burning. Agnes isn’t sure if Cris understands what she’s saying although sickbay’s com unit is working flawlessly; Ean made sure of that. Emil told her that the Viperian virus Rios has picked up affects cognitive function, and although she thinks she sees understanding in Rios’ eyes, he doesn’t answer. He stopped speaking entirely hours ago.

“Emil, how is he?” she asks, not breaking eye contact with Cris. It’s all she has, now that she can’t touch him, can’t be with him in his isolation cubicle. Now that he can no longer talk.

The EMH looks up from where he’s bent over test protocols, bloodwork and Petri dishes. It’s an illusion, of course, but Agnes thinks she sees the shadows of sleeplessness under his eyes.

“Temperature holding steady at 104°. Oxygen saturation is at 93%, BP 138 over 90, heart rate-“

“ _Not_ that,” Agnes says, stress making her voice sharp. “Not numbers. I can see his numbers on the monitor. I mean - how _is_ he?”

Cris hasn’t even blinked during this exchange. His palms are still against the glass, and he’s still looking at Agnes, but she’s not sure whether she sees emptiness in his feverish eyes or unfathomable depth. 

“Oh.” The EMH gets up and seems to recalibrate his thought process. He comes to stand beside Agnes, and, shoving his hands into his coat pockets, he frowns at his patient.

“Physically, he’s holding up so far,” he says, voice assuming an appropriately somber colour. “But none of the antiviral medications are working, and his neurological function is degrading.”

Agnes swallows, but a lump of fear remains stuck in her throat.

“If… _when_ we find a treatment, is the damage reversible?”

“Hard to say. It’s a new strain. There is no data beyond this outbreak. Normally, viral brain damage can be reversed with brain cell multiplying agents or synthetic transplant cells. It’s simple enough in meningitis or Romulan sicta virus patients, but there is no evidence that it will or will not work with the Viperian flu.”

He stops and frowns at Agnes.

“Doctor, are you alright? Your blood pressure and cortisol levels-“

“I’m fine,” she cuts him off. She hasn’t slept, and she’s scared and she wants to scream, but she doesn’t want the EMH to push a sedative on her, so she puts on a brave face. “I’m worried. We all are. I’m fine.”

“You’re afraid,” the hologram observes, sympathy laid over an analytical result that’s percolated through his programming. 

“Yes,” Agnes admits, giving a bitter little laugh. “Your analysis is correct.”

In front of her, Rios blinks sluggishly, but his hands remain where they are, and Agnes has the sudden, frightening thought that, if he moves, if his hands drop and he turns away from her, she’ll have lost him forever.

“I will find a cure, Dr. Jurati,” Emil says, making it sound like a fact, like he always does. “I am systematically going through antibody extraction and retargeting protocols. It is only a matter of time until I find the correct one.” 

Agnes feels like a harbinger of death when, her eyes still locked with Cris’, she whispers: “What if it’s too late?”

A sequence of beeps from a centrifuge interferes with whatever the EMH was composing as an answer and, holographic face lighting up, he hurries back to his work. Agnes seems forgotten.

Through the com system, she hears a faint sound. She looks around the cubicle, wondering - until she realizes it’s coming from Cris: a faint, distressed humming. His lips press into a taut line, and he blinks rapidly.

“Cris?”

The EMH is already on his feet, shimmering into nothingness to reappear on the other side of the glass, beside his patient.

“Captain Rios?” He speaks gently, urgently, and he keeps his words simple, as if talking to a child. “I’m going to help you back to bed now. I need you to lie down.”

Rios’ whole body is tense. A violent tremor runs through him, making his palms rattle against the glass. His vitals, projected on the cubicle wall, are spiking and blinking red. Alarms blare.

Fear constricts Agnes’ throat.

“What’s happening? Emil? What’s happening to him?!”

That’s when Cris’ hands drop away from the glass, his eyes roll back into his head and the EMH catches him as he slumps like a rag doll.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to be continued... (on Oct. 11, if things go as planned)


	9. For The Greater Good (The Musketeers)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A crushing weight rests on the shoulders of one of our boys. Call-back to "The Man In The Iron Mask".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: #9 “Run!”
> 
> If you've read "The Man In The Iron Mask", this may feel a little familiar.

Smoke and debris still settle around them, and Athos’ ears are ringing from the explosion as he drags himself out from underneath the remains of a cabinet and looks around for his brothers. He sees all three of them struggling to their feet, covered in dust and disoriented like he is. The bomb - or whatever it was - must’ve exploded in the room behind them, now reduced to a pile of rubble, and it was just their luck they’d had a wall and a closed door between them and the blast. Not that there’s anything left of the wall now. Or the door. Athos shakes his head at the smoldering chaos.

“Anyone hurt?” It’s more coughing than a question from Aramis, who has grabbed a swaying d’Artagnan and is giving him a quick once-over. 

“Nah.” Porthos’ affirmation is accompanied by a groan as he pushes out from under a broken table top. “I’m in one piece. How ‘bout y’all?”

“Fine,” Athos replies automatically. He picks his hat up, dusts it off and places it back on his head. His body feels sore all over, and his hip and left thigh smart as if he’s been kicked by a horse, but nothing important is bleeding, and that - as far as he is concerned - fits the definition of “fine”. 

“Aramis? D’Artagnan?”

“Fine!” D’Artagnan is quick to echo Athos’ reply, although he looks a little cross-eyed and Aramis is dabbing at the back of his head with a handkerchief.

“He’s lying,” Aramis comments dryly. “But I assume he’ll live.”

“An’ yerself?” 

Porthos wades over to his best friend, picking his way through upended furniture and loose bricks.

“Splendid,” Aramis says, and even from where Athos is standing he can see the large bruise forming on one side of the marksman’s face and one blackening eye. 

Athos grimaces at him. “Then let’s get out of here. I’m not confident about the stability of this building.” 

He looks at the ceiling and the supporting beams, some of which look badly damaged.  
The house emits a creaky groan. It’s a sturdy, fairly large brick building, and the damage seems to be confined to the back of the building, but Athos knows enough about architecture and statics to be worried. He’s not the only one. All four of them quickly gather their hats and dislodged weaponry and begin to navigate their way to the front of the house. 

They’re traversing the front hall which looks largely unaffected by the explosion when a prolonged _‘crack!’_ resounds above their heads. Four heads look up to find a fissure running across the ceiling that splits open all the way to the front door. The whole building seems to give a shudder, and chunks of clay rain down. 

“What- ?”

“Oh no!” 

_“Run!”_

Athos doesn’t have to shout it twice. They limp and scramble across the hall. To Athos’ dismay, he sees the front door splitting apart under the pressure of the wavering building. The whole door frame is sagging as the wall around it ripples and sways. Above them, with a sudden lurch, the first floor drops several inches, about to cave. 

Porthos is the first one to reach the sagging entrance. He kicks the broken door aside and wedges himself underneath the heavy beam that seems to be the one thing keeping the entire construction from collapsing. With his neck and shoulders, the big Musketeer pushes upward. 

“Porthos!”

Athos is by his side and, with both hands, he helps Porthos stem the weight pressing down on him. He feels the entire building tremble through his palms. Porthos’ face distorts, and his thighs bulge as he keeps their way out from folding in on itself.

Aramis and d’Artagnan have reached them, wide eyes skipping from Porthos to Athos and the collapsing entrance and back. 

“Bloody hell, Porthos, you-”

“Get outta here, Aramis!” Porthos grits through clenched teeth, so white in his dusty face. “Get outta here, all o’ you! I’ll hold it up ‘til you’re out!”

Athos feels the pressure increase. His boots slip on the floor as he searches for purchase. Any moment now, they’ll all get buried under tons of rubble.

“You too, Athos!” Porthos bellows harshly. “Yer blocking the way. Go! _GO!”_

Aramis, supporting a dizzy d’Artagnan, is staring at Porthos. D’Artagnan’s face is frozen in horror. Athos feels his heart sink.

“No!” Aramis shouts at his friend. “No, you’ll get crushed! There’ll be no time for you to-”

Porthos has no time for this. “NOW, Aramis! Take ‘em! I’ll be right behind ya. Please! GO!”

They’ve all been in this position. Even d’Artagnan, their youngest. That moment when “one for all” comes to a head, and neither of them has ever shown a blink of hesitation to save the others, even when it could have meant giving their own lives. And, as always, it’s a seconds-long tug-of-war between the brothers: eyes locking in shock, in denial, in preliminary grief - and in the final realization that _this_ is what they’d all do for each other. They’re musketeers. _Sacrifice_. It’s in their blood. 

Athos sees Aramis’ shoulders droop and hears d’Artagnan gasp in disbelief. Then he makes a decision. He catches Porthos’ grim gaze, the soulful eyes darkened in determination. Then he nods.

“See you on the other side, brother.”

And then he ducks out from under the door frame, pushes d’Artagnan through the opening and pulls Aramis along by the lapels of his doublet. They’re outside, stumbling a few steps and falling over each other when, with a great, heaving sigh, the building collapses behind them and Porthos disappears in a cloud of bricks and mortar and billowing dust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to be continued....
> 
> What worked for Aramis In Space yesterday has to work for the Musketeers today: I'm breaking this one up into two parts in order to hit more birds aka prompts with a single stone and get something up today. Which means I hope you come back in three days time to find out if Porthos survived.


	10. They Look So Pretty When They Bleed (Cormoran Strike)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike has lost something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompts: #10 blood loss #13 oxygen mask #25 disorientation
> 
> This is a bit of a grim one. And it's short. But at least there's no cliffhanger this time.

“Sergeant Strike? Strike? Can you hear me? Sergeant Strike?”

A face appears above him, but a sheet has been dropped between him and the world. Everything is muted - sounds, pain, thoughts - and all he can hear is the thrum of his own heartbeat in his ears, and all he can think is: _My leg. Something happened to my leg._

But even that thought has little to do with the world or his own body. Someone is still talking to him, and a second face has appeared, mouth moving, not making sense. Hands are on him, on his leg _(what happened to his leg?)_ , something clamps around his thigh and, oddly, it feels not like his own thigh. Everything feels a little removed, as if his brain and body have been shaken into incongruence. Overlapping, but no longer one unit.

“Yeah.” He answers a question he must have understood but can’t remember. All he _can_ remember is a pool of blood and that he’s missing a boot. 

He sees a tube in his line of vision, dangling from an IV bag, held by someone’s hand. It doesn’t seem to have anything to do with him.

_Fupp - fupp - fupp_

Flapping, overhead. Air kicking up sand. A giant insect descending from the sky.

_Fupp - fupp - fupp_

“Sergeant Strike?”

Yes. That’s him. Sergeant Strike. Why do they keep asking? 

“...lift you…”

He’s airborne for a moment. Hard soil is replaced by something softer underneath him. The sensation of being carried. The shift in position kindles a surge of panic. _They can’t leave without his..._

The thought trails off into a void.

_Fupp - fupp - fupp_

He’s inside a metal belly and jostled about. The whooping sensation of flight. _Helicopter._  
It’s cold, and he’s covered in silver foil. A new bag dangles above him, it’s contents dark red. 

_Blood. His leg. A pool of blood._

Something beeps and keeps beeping. Insistent. 

“BP’s dropping. His saturation is…”

The smell of plastic. A cool hiss as something is pressed over his nose and mouth. He can hear his own breath. 

Sky looking through a window. Clouds, reddened and in shreds. Like tissue, like...

Another surge of panic. They’re flying; they’re leaving. And he doesn’t have his boot. They didn’t leave it behind, did they? _Oh God, they didn’t leave his-_

“It’s okay, Bluey. It’s okay. Shhh...”

Eyes flying open, sheets wet, Strike finds Charlotte at his side. Her arms pull him towards her, her touch reinstating reality. He’s breathing hard, and he buries his nose in her hair to chase away the smell of blood.

“It was just a dream, Bluey.”

Strike looks down at the foot of the bed. At three legs tangled around each other under the blanket. At the crutches leaning against the wall and the prosthesis glinting in the dark.

_It wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t._


	11. Psych 101 (Star Trek: Picard)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recovery is a long road, but at least one of the holos is having a field day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts: #12 defiance, struggling, crying
> 
> This chapter is a sequel to Chapter 8. I recommend you read that one first, but I guess it's not absolutely necessary.
> 
> This one feels a bit clunky and it's definitely not the best I've written for Whumptober. But I'm learning to accept that I can't always be on my A game and to just go with what I have.

Several weeks later, Rios laboriously climbed the stairs to the bridge, defiance on his face. He was leaning on a cane and throwing sharp side-glances at the EMH who was studying his progress with something akin to scientific glee. Despite Rios’ stormy face, Agnes waited for him at the top of the stairs with a feeling of triumph. After all, it was that same defiance that had brought him here.

After the seizures, after the artificial coma, after Emil’s last-minute discovery of an effective antibody treatment against the Viperian virus, Cris had fought his way back through a harrowing regimen of neuro-regenerative treatments and physical rehabilitation. Agnes would never forget the night he’d almost died: His lifeless form in the biobed, his chest no longer moving when the holographic ventilator had taken over respiratory function. Agnes, on the other side of the glass, had been frozen in fear of losing him, while the EMH had been working in the lab with robotic mania in his eyes. 

She’d felt so lonely. Quarantine regulations forbade any visitors to come on board, and although communication kept pouring in from what Agnes had come to call their crew, it had only been her and the holograms on the _Sirena._ Raffi’s “Honey, I’m here” on the com channel had been well-meant but not physically true, and even Picard’s wise and gentle words hadn’t been able to calm her down for long. The emergency holograms had been single-mindedly engaged in fulfilling their duties: Enoch and Emmett had manned the bridge, Ean had made sure the ship remained in tip-top shape while providing Emil with whatever technical equipment he needed in the lab. If it hadn’t been for Steward, Agnes thought she would’ve lost her mind.

The EHH had stepped up and proven invaluable. Not only had he shielded Agnes from the constant barrage of status requests from Raffi, Soji and the others, he’d also made sure that she’d kept her strength up, providing comfort food and endless pots of tea and setting up a comfortable cot for her in sickbay. Even Steward’s disregard for personal space had turned out to be an asset in those darkest nights, when, starved for physical contact, all she’d wanted to do was touch Cris or hold his hand - and had suddenly found herself in the EHH’s Cris-like embrace, crying and breathing in the imitation of his familiar smell. 

It had been Steward as well who’d come up with clever solutions during Cris’ recovery. When his speech had come back, it had only been his mother tongue at first, and Steward, with Ean’s help, had crafted an in-ear simultaneous translator to help Agnes and Cris communicate. The EHH had inconspicuously rearranged the layout of Rios’ cabin to make moving around easier for him when he’d graduated from sickbay to sleeping in his own quarters again. In collaboration with Emil, he’d come up with a meal plan to build their captain’s strength back up. And it had been Steward to provide the captain with a fashionable cane instead of the crutch he hated so much.

Maybe that was why Cris, who had now finally arrived on the bridge, tolerated the EHH’s presence with merely an eye roll when the hologram hurried to give the Captain’s chair a final wipe with a cleaning cloth.

“You ready?” Agnes asked Cris with a jubilant smile.

He looked at her, the shadows under his eyes still a little more pronounced, but with the sharp intelligence in his eyes rekindled. _God, she had missed those eyes._

 _“Sí,”_ he said, sounding a little nervous. “It’s been a long time.”

Agnes grabbed his hand - the left one, still a little weaker than his right, but firmly closing around hers. 

“There’s a shipment of tritanium waiting for cargo transport on Flora-5,” she said. “You’d better get to it, Captain.”

Cris nodded. That defiance flickered in his eyes again. 

“Well then…” He quickly lifted her hand and gave it a kiss. _“Vamonos!”_

Enoch turned around in his seat when Cris had settled in his chair and the EMH, satisfied, shimmered away. 

“Lay in a course, Captain?” the ENH asked, face lit up in his customary grin.

“Flora-5,” Rios said, pulling a cigar from the little container on his belt. He stuck it in his mouth and lit it. “Watch out for the Agape Nebula formation once we pass the Ontaris belt. The magnetic particle density will throw the scanners out of whack.”

“Yes, sir.” Enoch twirled back to his console and happily began tapping keys.

Cris held out his hand and snapped his fingers. The holographic pilot controls lit up and molded themselves against his palm. Agnes saw him take a deep breath, reacquainting himself with the sensation of _La Sirena’s_ heart humming in his grip. Then, Cris moved the controls forward and up and Agnes’ insides did a joyful little flip when the ship launched into a steep ascent.


	12. I Think I've Broken Something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You were wrong, Dumas: It takes more than a pile of rubble to take out this particular musketeer!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompts: #12 broken bones, #10 internal bleeding
> 
> Sorry for being a day late. 
> 
> And I think it's better if I stick to one-shots from now on. Turns out it's hard to get back into the same mood and continue in the same tone.
> 
> Also: BlueRobin, if you're reading this: We're good now, right?

“Porthos! _PORTHOS!!!_ ”

“Aramis, don’t! WAIT!”

Athos lunges at Aramis who wants to dive right back into the still-sliding, still-shifting mountain of rubble. The marksman looks wild; shock has driven all colour from his usually tan face, and he strains madly against Athos’ arms slung around his waist.

“Let me g- PORTHOS!”

“Wait!” Athos insists, taking an elbow in the ribs but not releasing his desperate friend. “Wait till it settles. We can’t help him if we get buried as well! Aramis!”

D’Artagnan has sprung to Athos’ aid. He, too, looks horrified, but he has his wits about him enough to help Athos wrestle the marksman into submission. Somehow, seeing Aramis like this makes it all so much worse: Their medic and sharp-shooter, calm and collected in the most dire circumstances, screaming and out of his mind from fear.

“No, NOOO! We have to help him! We have to get in there! We- For Heaven’s sake - let me GO!” 

Aramis strains against his brother’s grasp with inhuman strength. Athos has never seen him like this. But he understands why. They’ve all defied the odds many times, but this time- 

_No one could survive this. Not even Porthos._

They hold Aramis down until the cacophony of collapse dies down and the air clears enough to see. By then, the marksman has settled down enough to stop fighting. When Athos and d’Artagnan pull him to his feet, he stares at the scene of destruction in blank horror: Not one single wall has remained upright. The house has been reduced to a giant, jagged corpse of brick and wood.

And there’s no sign of Porthos.

“Porthos!”

They all storm to the place where the front door must have been. 

“Porthos, can you hear us?!”

Hands dig into the rubble. They all shout their friend’s name. Athos has the hollow feeling of summoning a ghost, but he keeps digging. The debris isn’t piled quite as high at the front, but it’s still high enough for them to have to climb on top, and Athos cannot shake the feeling of walking over a grave.

“Spread out a little,” he instructs the others. “Form a line! Watch your step!”

Aramis is still frantic, but he listens, and d’Artagnan nods at Athos, thankful for his guidance. Proceeding in a somewhat more organized fashion calms all of them down a little. They have a purpose now: this is a mission, and Porthos is their objective. It helps.

The minutes tick by. Soon, Athos feels sweat running down his back. His arms ache and his bruised leg begins to tremble. He’s breathing hard, blood pumping in his ears, but his eyes are fixed on any new opening in the rubble, his ears pricked for any noise beyond their digging. 

_It’s taking too long. Even if he’s alive, he’s running out of air._

Athos sees the same thought written on Aramis’ sweat-streaked and bruised face. The tension must be unbearable for him: It was on Aramis’ hunch that they went in and searched the house. If Porthos dies here, he will never get past his feelings of guilt. They will lose two brothers, not just one.

“I think I’ve found something!”

D’Artagnan’s shout has him look up and stumble over to the Gascon, heart racing. Aramis beats him to the spot.

Their youngest is hectically pulling broken floorboards out of an opening he’s managed to widen.

“What?”

“There! Look!”

A braided piece of cloth peeks out from under a larger chunk of wall. A bandana.

“Porthos!” They all resume their shouting and get on their knees to dig with renewed urgency. There’s no reply to their shouts, and it’s a bad sign, but if Athos has learned one thing since joining the Musketeers it is that giving up is not an option. 

“Careful,” Athos admonishes. “Slow down! It’s unstable! We can’t risk that whole pile sliding again! Move as little as possible!”

It takes forever to clear enough rubble away, and then a desperate, six-handed heave to get the chunk of wall lifted and pushed aside. And then-

_Porthos._

He’s on his side, one arm protectively over his head, and he’s completely still. Blood and dust cake what Athos can see of his face. His eyes are closed.

Aramis has pulled his glove off and crouches down to check’s Porthos’ pulse. His hand is shaking, and Athos sees him willing his fingers to still. 

_It can’t be. It-_

“He’s alive.”

Athos exhales. D’Artagnan clutches his forehead in disbelief, and Aramis turns into a different person. The panic leaves his eyes. His hands stop shaking. He gently repostitions Porthos’ arm to examine his head. 

“He has a head wound,” he states. “But I can’t feel any fractures in his skull.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?” D’Artagnan asks hopefully.

“Yes.” 

Aramis sounds neutral. Focused. Efficiently, he runs his hands over the rest of Porthos’ body.

“Broken arm,” he reports, frowning. “Several Ribs. Broken leg.” The frown deepens. 

Athos knows what he’s thinking. “Internal injuries?”

“Possibly,” Aramis replies. “It’s not for me to tell.” 

Tenderly, the marksman brushes his hand over Porthos’ dark head. In Aramis’ eyes, Athos sees a curious blend of acceptance, faith and determination. 

“Let’s get his arm and leg splinted, and then let’s get him home.”

*****

And that is what they do. What they’re good at: d’Artagnan commandeers a cart from God knows where, and Athos assists Aramis like a second pair of hands, quietly handing him bandages, water and whatever else he needs to settle Porthos’ unconscious body in the back of the cart. There is a flurry of hopeful excitement when Aramis cleans the big man’s head wound with alcohol and they hear him moan and roll his head. It’s just a moment, and he goes limp and still again, but Athos takes it as a good sign and Aramis’ animated nod at him confirms the impression.

Back at the garrison, hope takes a serious hit when Treville summons Lemay who, after palpating Porthos’ abdomen, speaks of internal injuries and how all they can do is hope and wait. So that, too, is what they do, what they’re good at: Aramis praying with a rosary in one hand and Porthos’ uninjured one in the other; Athos sitting quiet, sleepless vigil and d’Artagnan pacing the room and wearing down his boots while Treville makes sure that Serge keeps them fed and their fellow musketeers take over they posts while they wait.

Three days pass. Hope ebbs and surges. Porthos’ breath slows and steadies again. A fever comes and burns and retreats. Aramis runs himself ragged and d’Artagnan continues pacing while Athos hides his feelings under his hat. They’re so good at all of this, but that doesn’t mean it gets any easier.

It fits that Porthos wakes up on the fourth day, at breakfast. Serge has brought a tray laden with bread and cheese and a jug of ale, a few apples and a jar of honey. Athos eyes the tray wearily while d’Artagnan digs in, in need of fuel for his pacing, and Aramis dutifully reaches for the bread. 

“Yer leavin’ some o’ that fer me, righ’?”

It’s slurred and barely above a whisper, and it sounds like something that’s been dragged behind a horse. 

But it’s Porthos, and he’s awake.

Oh, they know how to do this part best: The gentle, injury-sparing hugs, the tired smiles, the cheek-kisses and the teasing jokes. The light driving out the darkness. The brotherhood righting itself. 

The _Inseparables._

_It’s not just a name_ , Athos thinks as he watches Aramis fuss happily and d’Artagnan recounts the rescue in exaggerated detail. It’s a promise. And Porthos has kept it.


	13. Breathe In Breathe Out (Cormoran Strike)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike is out of breath for more than one reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: #13 oxygen mask

“I said I don’t need that.” 

Strike pulled the oxygen mask from his face and let it hang around his neck, glaring at the exasperated paramedic.

“Mr. Strike! Your saturation isn’t good, and-”

“It never is,” Strike cut him off, glowering at the man from underneath singed eyebrows. “I smoke two packs a day. Not much more harm a fire can do.”

The paramedic looked a bit shocked. 

“On the contrary! It means your lungs are much more susceptible to-”

“It’s alright,” a bright voice said, and then Robin stepped around the gurney Strike was perched on and into his line of vision. “It’s alright. I’ve got this.”

The paramedic hesitated, but when a firefighter called him over, he seemed almost relieved to have to leave his reluctant patient.

“Don’t let him walk away,” he said over his shoulder. “He needs to get checked out at the hospital!”

Robin gave him an affirmative nod.

Strike squinted at his partner out of stinging eyes. From her reproachful but soft expression, he guessed he was looking pitiful enough to escape a lecture. One of his shirtsleeves was rolled up, revealing a blistering burn that was smeared thickly with ointment. His face stung and tickled under a layer of soot, and his clothes were greyed by ash. He blinked at her, releasing a rattling cough.

Robin raised an eyebrow. She looked like someone who had only just learned that there had been no reason to panic. A flush was still fading from her face, and her hair was tucked into an untidy ponytail. She wasn’t wearing any make up and she was dressed in a simple grey sweatshirt over a faded pair of jeans: Someone (Wardle? Vanessa?) must have pulled her from sleep or from lounging on her couch.

 _“We’re not doing anything without the police,”_ Robin said with a surprisingly convincing Cornish accent, drawing quotation marks into the air. _“It’s too dangerous, Robin. We’re not doing anything until we have proof.”_

She dropped her hands and, instead, crossed her arms in front of her chest. 

“Seriously, Strike?” 

The detective answered her with a guilty, wheezing sigh. 

Robin shook her head.

“You’re hopeless.” 

She stepped closer until she was standing between Strike’s dangling, wide-spread legs. Even through the acrid smoke still wafting over from the burning office building, he thought he caught a whiff of _Narciso._

Then Robin leaned in, her eyes bright blue pools in front of him, her lips suddenly very close. One of her hands reached around the back of his neck. 

“Wha-?” 

She grabbed the oxygen mask and placed it over his nose and mouth, securely adjusting the strap before Strike could get another word out.

“No discussion, Strike,” she said, stepping back with a stern look. “I need you breathing to run the agency with me.”

For a brief moment, Strike considered rebellion. But his eyes had cleared enough to see the worry underneath Robin’s tough exterior. The worry and something that reminded him of what he’d felt at her wedding, and later when he’d accidentally kissed her in the car park. Of the charged silence when, drunk, he’d been content to just sit there and stare at her in the office.

Thus, he surrendered and, coughing and obediently breathing in oxygen, bathed in the rewarding smile that spread on Robin’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this last night but didn’t get to upload it. Does that mean that I’m technically almost back on track?


	14. Is Something Burning? (Star Trek Picard)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forget dermal regenerators.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: #14 branding
> 
> cw: scars, wound dressing
> 
> I'm caught up on prompts! Yay me! (Let's see how long it lasts...)
> 
> I took some liberties with this prompt, and I think I've seen someone else write about the same theme, but I like the idea behind it, so please be lenient.

When Rios slid into bed that night, Agnes became aware of a gauze pad crookedly taped to his arm.

“A bandage?” she asked, looking curiously at him. “That’s very 2085. What happened?”

Rios shook his head. “It’s nothing. Not important.”

“No, seriously.” Agnes was more intrigued than worried. “What did you do?”

“Brushed my arm against an overheated photon pressure pipe. Like I said, it’s nothing.”

Rios tried to smooth down the tape strip that was coming loose. Agnes saw that fluid was weeping through the gauze.

She frowned. 

“You didn’t even get this looked at, did you?”

“Agnes!” Rios rolled his eyes. “It’s enough that the EMH keeps pestering me about the tiniest paper cut. Now you as well? _Gracias, no!_ Stop it right there!”

Agnes felt her amusement turn into annoyance. 

“I have a medical degree, remember? That’s a burn wound, and it needs to be taken care of. I’ll stop it when you let me take a look at it!”

Scoffing, Rios rolled his eyes. But he’d apparently learned that Agnes could be very stubborn if she wanted to, and that his misanthropic attitude no longer cowed her. He gave Agnes a deeply disgruntled look and held out his arm. 

Agnes peeled the bandage off and found what she had expected: an angrily weeping, deep burn mark on Cris’ triceps. The smudged shape of a symbol was branded into the oblong wound.

“Huh,” she said, squinting. “That’s Klingon. Interesting.”

More eye-rolling from Cris as Agnes conjured a med kit and started dabbing at the wound.

“It was a Klingon spare part,” he said, suppressing a wince. “That’s the manufacturer’s name. No wonder it overheated. Load of crap.”

Agnes tutted at him. She finished disinfecting the wound and reached for the dermal regenerator.

“No,” Rios said automatically. “Leave it. Just clean and dress it.”

Agnes discarded the antiseptic wipes into a biohazard bag and scrunched her face into a quizzical frown.

“Why? It’ll scar, and badly.”

“I don’t mind scars.” 

Rios made a dismissive gesture.

“I know,” Agnes said. “I’ve seen that.”

She pointed at a ragged, long scar on Cris’ other arm and at a fine line on his forehead. There was another badly healed reminder of an injury on his stomach, shaped like the top of a screw. In this day and age, all of these marks should’ve been avoidable. None of those wounds had been treated with a dermal regenerator or - if initial treatment hadn’t been possible - received cosmetic refinement later. 

Agnes knew that Cris wasn’t a vain person. But she also knew that he kept his body in shape. He let his hair grow out in messy curls and spent his days in the ever same outfit of cargo pants and black shirts. But his muscular body and daily football exercise routine on the transporter deck didn’t speak of self-neglect.

“What is it with you and scars?” Without wanting to, she’d thought out loud, and it may have been her musing, inoffensive tone that caused Cris to reply.

“I like imperfection.” He shrugged.

“What do you mean?” 

She let the regenerator sink and looked at him. His answer had sounded less brusque, and she’d heard honesty in it.

“I mean…” He looked at her, his expression unusually shy. “Everything is so perfect now. We can make it all go away with the wave of a wand - wrinkles, birthmarks, moles, grey hairs, scars. Everyone looks smooth and flawless. Our bodies no longer tell the stories of our lives.”

Agnes blinked in surprise. She hadn’t expected an answer like this. She hadn’t expected an answer at all.

“Is that the brooding existentialist spaceman talking or a guy who simply - and wonderfully, I may add - thinks that flaws can be beautiful?”

Cris smirked. “The latter.” 

“Okay then,” she said casually, trying not to drown in the sudden softness of Cris’ eyes. “Let’s wait if you’ll stick to that conviction when you find out my natural hair color.”

They both chuckled.

“Agnes P. Jurati,” Cris then said warmly. “In my eyes, you will always be _perfectamente imperfecta_.”

Agnes felt her cheeks glow.

“I’ll take that as a compliment. - Bandage?” 

She pointed at the med kit. Somewhere, at the bottom, there had to be some old-fashioned gauze and medical tape.

“Yes, please.” Cris smiled.

“You got it.”

And then she proceeded to dress Cris’ wound, thinking that this night, this intimate talk, would be included in the story its scar would one day tell.


	15. Into The Unknown (The Musketeers)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 17th century medicine was pretty hit-and-miss. And sometimes, a patient had to be saved from their own doctor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompts: #15 science gone wrong #10 blood loss
> 
> Special warning to the empath among my readers, BlueRobin: It's Aramis this time, but I think you'll like where it ends.

“No. Yer not doin’ that.”

Porthos steps protectively between Lemay and the bed Aramis is occupying. D’Artagnan joins him, hand on his sword. Getting up from his stool beside the bed, Athos completes the line of defense. 

“He’s right,” Athos says icily. “You’re not touching him unless you put that down.”

He points at the scalpel and at the bowl Lemay is holding. The doctor looks at the three musketeers, intimidated, but not willing to yield. 

“Captain, you have to see reason,” he addresses Athos. “He needs to be bled! It may be his only chance!”

Athos doesn’t blink as he slowly shakes his head. 

“No.”

Behind him, he hears Aramis moan softly, and he wishes the marksman was awake to argue with Lemay over the course of his treatment. But two days after getting shot, a fever is burning through him, and Aramis hasn’t been lucid for hours. 

“Captain,” Lemay tries again. “He has an infection. We need to drain it out of his blood. The vile juices have to leave his body. It’s a proven method, and the only option we have left.”

“Aramis says it’s rubbish,” Porthos throws in, squaring his shoulders. “If ‘e was able to, ‘e’d explain to ya that-”

“But he’s not,” Lemay cuts him off. Athos can tell that the doctor means well and that he thinks he is fighting _for_ his patient and not against him, but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s wrong.  
“He’s not able to, and even if he were, he’s not a doctor. He’s a gifted man with rudimentary medical knowledge, but he isn’t a physician. I am!”

Beside Athos, d’Artagnan fidgets with indignation, and on his other side Porthos huffs.

“E’s treated more wounds than you ever will. ‘E’s treated soldiers with real injuries while you’ve been ‘andin’ out smellin’ salts to the ladies at court an’ cough juice to the King.”  


Although they all know Lemay is capable of much more, Athos thinks that Porthos has a point. And it’s why they’re standing here, protecting their brother from a practice they’ve never seen Aramis apply in the field. A practice which Aramis, in fact, condemns with conviction. And more than once, he’s explained to them why.

“He’s lost enough blood already,” Athos says cooly. “Taking more will only weaken him further.”

Lemay raises a pleading hand. 

“But I am convinced it will help him. Please, Captain, do you want to be responsible for your friend’s death?”

Porthos growls and, fists balled, takes a step forward. Athos holds him back with an arm across his chest. 

“We’ll take that chance,” he says, and Lemay flinches underneath his withering glare. “And unless there’s any other and sensible form of treatment you can offer, we’re asking you to leave.”

Lemay hesitates. Metal hisses when, as a warning, d’Artagnan begins to slide his sword out of its scabbard. Then Lemay exhales in resignation.

“No,” he admits. “There’s nothing else I can do. Keep his wounds clean. Change the bandages regularly. Make him drink. Pray. Summon me if you change your mind, but it may be too late by then.”

The doctor drops the scalpel into the unused bowl, throws a last, frustrated glance at Aramis’ still form, turns on his heel and leaves.

Athos feels himself deflate, and, returning to Aramis’ side, his heart races with the same feelings of doubt he can see on Porthos’ and d’Artagnan’s faces. He looks at their injured friend, his arm and leg heavily bandaged, his dark curls plastered to his face, so pale in spite of the fever. Aramis had lost so much blood by the time they’d got him here, and when Lemay had finally sewn up the hole in his arm and the deep slash in his thigh he’d looked like death. 

“Did we do the right thing?” D’Artagnan voices the question they’re all thinking.

“Yeah.” Porthos sits down by Aramis’ uninjured side, looking ridiculously big on that small stool. He dunks a cloth into a bowl of water and gently wipes Aramis’ face. “Yeah, we did. ‘e told us that bleedin’ a wounded man only kill’s ‘em faster. ‘E told us many times.”

“But the infection?” D’Artagnan rakes his hand through his grown-out hair. “It needs to be drained, doesn’t it?”

Athos, one hand settled on Aramis’ good shoulder, shakes his head.

“An infected wound needs to be drained. Yes. Not the whole body. We’ve kept his wounds clean. We’ve done everything he would have done.”

As if to reassure himself, Athos checks the bandage around Aramis’ arm. There’s no oozing, no foul smell. The same, he knows, goes for his leg. He’s been checking it diligently. 

“We’ve done the right thing,” he reassures his brothers, reassures himself. “Lemay is wrong. Now let’s make sure Aramis stays alive so he can tell him that himself.”

D’Artagnan nods. “I’ll go fetch more water.”

Porthos continues to wet compresses and places them where Aramis taught him to, tirelessly explaining why. The marksman gives a little whimper of distress and rolls his head in Porthos’ direction, his eyes fluttering, but not opening.

“I know,” Porthos grumbles compassionately. “‘Feels bloody cold. I hate compresses too.”

Athos reaches for Aramis’ rosary on the bedside table. He runs it through his fingers, searching his memory for the old prayers. He doesn’t believe in a merciful God, but Aramis does, and they need all the help they can get.

_(One week later)_

“It’s astounding,” Lemay says, rewrapping Aramis’ leg. “You’re healing remarkably well! I think you’re even ready to start walking on it.”

Aramis smiles. He’s sitting upright in his bed, his natural colour returned to his face, and with clear eyes. His arm is still in a sling, but the fever is gone, and an empty plate on his bedside table is proof to the return of his appetite.

“Excellent,” he says cheerfully. “As fun as it’s all been with you, gentlemen” - he looks at his three brothers lounging around him in their usual spots - “entertainment in this facility has been lacking, and I have... matters to attend.” 

D’Artagnan rolls his eyes, and Porthos rumbles a laugh. Athos’ mouth twitches.

“Before you do,” Lemay says seriously. “I have to admit that this has been an interesting lesson.”

“Yer admitting that bleedin’ people is wrong then?” Porthos’ face grows stern again.

“I’m not.” The doctor looks pensive. “We don’t know if blood-letting would have changed the outcome. But the fact that you’ve recovered so quickly, much quicker than I would have thought possible - I’ll give it some thought.”

Aramis gives a one-shouldered shrug. “Bleeding makes no sense in a patient who’s already lost a lot of blood. It only drains them of their strength.”

“...and I told ‘im so!”

“And I am very glad you did.” Aramis gives his best friend a warm and genuine smile.

“In that case,” Lemay continues. “I will consider it the next time the occasion arises.”

A moment of uncomfortable silence ensues. They all know that there will be a next time. They are soldiers. They will get wounded, and they will lose blood. It’s only a question of whose turn it is next.

“Until then, will you please excuse me?” Aramis breaks the uneasiness, mischief in his voice and a sly glint in his dark eyes. “I need to get dressed, and if someone could fashion me with a cane? There is a lady who is desperate to assure herself of my well-being, and I would like to receive her fully clothed and on my feet.”

“I bet she’s desperate to assure herself of other things as well,” d’Artagnan comments wryly, and the tension is broken.

“I will leave you to it, then.” 

Lemay takes his medical bag and leaves. Athos leaves as well, after a last warning in Aramis’ direction to take it easy. As he pulls the door to the infirmary closed, he hears the voices of his brothers behind him - banter, teasing, laughter. A weight drops from Athos’ chest. Straightening his spine, he strides back to his captain’s office. He, too, has matters to attend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea when the godawful practice of blood-letting stopped. I know it still has its value in modern medicine in certain cases, like iron overload and other diseases. But during the old days, it was mainly a procedure that was meant to rid a patient of "bad juices" coursing through their body and rarely ever helped. More often than not, it harmed. Looking stuff like that up is interesting, but it also makes me very glad about how far medical science has come.


	16. A Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day (Cormoran Strike)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drugged, Robin isn't sure she remembers correctly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: #16 hallucinations
> 
> Again, taking my liberties with this prompt. Somehow, I'm having more difficult times with psychological whump than with physical injuries.

Robin stumbled out into the street, almost dropping her phone. Her fingers were numb, and vertigo was causing her to stumble against a parked car, triggering the alarm. She hung on to the door handle, blinking against the confusing haloes of the street lights and the rhythmic honking.

_“Robin! Are you still there? Robin!”_

Cormoran’s frantic voice was a fraying, tinny connection to what was left of the real world. 

_“Robin!”_ He bellowed through the phone. _“An ambulance is on the way! Stay where you are! Stay awake! Robin, can you hear me?”_

She wanted to answer, but her tongue was refusing to form any words. Her heart was thumping in a frenetic gallop, her breath coming in quick bursts. Thoughts coagulated to nonsensical gibberish in her head, and through her confusion, she felt the urge to laugh. Whatever she’d been drugged with - it was at least wiping away the fear. How funny, to think she might die…

_“Robin! Talk to me…! I’m almost there!”_

***

She was moving. No, something was moving her. Light shone into her eyes. The prick of a needle. Pressure on her arm. A loud, plaintive wail above her. 

“... tachycardic… milligrams of Narcan IV… ETA...”

A female voice was fading in and out. Colours danced behind Robin’s closed eyelids. _Where was the music?_ Something tickled under Robin’s nose, and she wiped at it. A hand caught hers, warm and big. 

“Leave it,” a deep, disembodied voice said anxiously. “...breathe. Just breathe. You…”

Robin blinked. More colours. A dark, burly shape at her side. That voice… _What was Cormoran doing here?_

An alarm sounded somewhere close. _Was she still leaning against the car? But she was on her back…_ Robin closed her eyes again. The female voice flared up, sounding urgent. 

“...V-fib … crashing…”

Robin’s chest hurt. A surge of panic clamped down on her. The colours exploded into fireworks. She couldn’t breathe.

“Robin!” 

Cutting through the pandemonium, Cormoran’s voice.

“Robin, don’t… _bloody hell_ … love you… _please!_ ”

A flash. Everything stopped.

***

“It was an opioid. Wardle can tell you the name, but I forgot. I’m too bloody tired…”

Seated next to Robin’s hospital bed, Cormoran scrubbed his large hands over his face. What little skin was visible between his beard, his thick eyebrows and his ungroomed hair looked sallow. His blue shirt was wrinkled. The bags under his eyes belonged to someone who’d last slept under Tony Blair.

“You do look awful,” Robin said.

“Thanks.”

“I’m sorry.” Robin pulled a guilty face. “Sorry for causing such a fuss.” 

She scooted up in her bed and tried to sort out the bunched-up pillow in her back without getting tangled up in her IV. 

_“Fuss?”_ Cormoran’s eyebrows rose to his hairline. “You call almost dying a _fuss?_ When you flatlined in that ambulance you nearly gave me a heart attack, Ellacott!” 

He shook his dark, tousled head and briefly buried his face in his hands.

Robin looked at him with a bad conscience. A memory tickled her brain.

“So you _were_ there…”

“Yes, yes I was.” Her partner still looked shell-shocked. He nodded vehemently and with an air of disbelief. “It was a bloody nightmare." Suddenly, his expression became insecure. “You remember?”

Robin wrinkled her nose. 

“Yes. I mean… I’m not sure.”

_Strike’s voice._

_… love you…_

She sat up, a little startled.

“What is it,” Cormoran asked, worried. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Robin felt a flush creeping up her cheeks. 

_He couldn’t have… could he?_

“It’s just… I think I remember something. You. Something you said.”

Cormoran fidgeted on his chair. He looked nervous all of a sudden. 

“Yeah?”

Robin stared at her partner. That bear of a man, exhausted, worried and looking back at her from bloodshot green eyes - did he, after all those years…?

“Oh, nothing.” Robin shook her head and scratched at her neck, looking away. “Nothing, it’s… I must’ve been hallucinating. Forget it.”

Strike’s face took on an odd expression, somewhere between crestfallen and utterly relieved.

“Yeah, you were pretty out of it,” he said, scratching his beard.

“I was, wasn’t I?”

“You were.” 

After an awkward moment of silence, Strike clapped his thighs and leaned forward, preparing to get up from his chair.

“Right. I have to go. Surveillance. I’m taking over Blackbird from Hutchins this morning. I’ll see you tonight. Do you need anything? Anything I can bring you?”

Robin smiled against a confusing wave of disappointment. 

“No. Yes! Something to eat, if you don’t mind. The food here’s disgusting.” She shuddered in exaggeration. 

Strike lifted an eyebrow. “Chinese?”

“Yes, please.”

“Got it.”

For some reason, Strike didn’t look at her as he went out the door.


	17. I Did Not See That Coming (Star Trek: Picard)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre- _La Sirena_ , Rios is going through a rough patch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: #17 wrongfully accused
> 
> WARNING: only hurt, no comfort in this one! It's a bit depressing, but if you've watched _Star Trek: Picard_ you know he's going to be (mostly) alright

Rios saw stars and blood gushed from his nose when the fist connected with his face. He stumbled back against the brick wall of the bar he’d just left. Through a cloud of pain and alcohol, he blinked at the large Klingon in front of him whose forehead was bulging with rage.

“You leave your paws off my girlfriend,” the Klingon snarled, pointed teeth bared. He followed the threat with a fist to Rios’ guts, and Cris folded over, coughing and splattering the pavement with blood.

“I never even touched her,” he gasped, holding his stomach. 

_Fuck_ , that hurt.

“I saw the way you looked at her! You talked to her! You wanted her. Bad news, pal - she’s mine!”

Technically, all Rios had done was make room for the pretty Andalorian girl so she could order her drinks at the crowded bar, exchanging a “thank you” and “you’re welcome”, but her Klingon boyfriend was clearly in rut and should be on house arrest until his hormones had settled. He wouldn’t be capable of seeing the truth if it stared him in the face, so Rios didn’t even bother trying. Off late, he’d become used to being falsely accused. Fighting a losing battle, he’d learned, was merely a waste of energy, and he hadn’t much of that left to begin with.

“Got it, _compadre_ ,” he said, raising his hands in surrender. “She’s yours. All yours. _Entiendo!_ ”

The Klingon, fists balled, issued a growl, and Rios braced himself for another punch or kick. There was a time when he would’ve gotten up and fought back, even against a Klingon, no matter the odds, but that time was in the past. Instead, Rios just tucked his head in and waited for impact.

He got lucky. The Klingon gave him a furious shove that made Rios’ head snap back and connect painfully with the wall behind him, but that was all. With a last menacing hiss, his bully stalked off and back into the bar.

Two other patrons who were just leaving walked past Rios, looking dubiously at him, but they didn’t ask or offer help, and Rios was glad for it. This wasn’t a neighborhood famous for its charity or even sense of community. Run-down, off the grid and populated by only few nocturnal wanderers, Rios had chosen the place for exactly that reason: for its anonymity and chance to be left alone.

He picked himself up from where he’d sunken onto the pavement. His stomach was burning, his nose was throbbing in a way that only broken bones did, and he was still dripping blood. The iron taste in his mouth was making him nauseous, and the headache fanning out from a growing lump on the back of his head wasn’t helping.

_Fantástico._ A concussion was all he needed to top this glorious night off.

Tentatively, he took a few steps, and although he felt dizzy, he kept walking. It had to be good enough. He pondered hailing a hover cab, but no driver would pick him up in this state - at least not without taking him to an emergency hub, and the last thing he wanted to do tonight was take it up with the well-meaning antics of an EMH or having to explain the amount of alcohol in his blood. 

Not that he would be able to pay for the treatment. Since having been kicked out of Starfleet a month ago, his financial status had dwindled. Gone down the drain, to be honest, in the form of his kidneys processing increasing amounts of _Pisco_. He’d tried to find a job as a freighter pilot, but the wrongful _‘violation of duty’_ charge in his file was a red flag, and once they dug deeper and came upon his diagnosis of _‘post-traumatic dysphoria’_ , he didn’t stand a single chance. No one wanted a volatile, mentally unstable pilot in their employment. 

Starfleet command, those motherfucking _cabrones_ , had made sure Rios never piloted a starship again.

Hence the Pisco. And the prospect of its mind- and pain-numbing qualities was what drove Rios on as he stumbled the three blocks to his seedy little apartment, avoiding the looks of passers-by and glad about his black shirt disguising the amount of blood that soiled his clothes. 

Having arrived, he took a quick trip to his bathroom to set his nose with a quick jerk of his fingers and a sickening _crunch_. He got through the ensuing puke-fest and tamponading of his nostrils with copious amounts of toilet paper. Avoiding another look in the mirror, he lurched back into the bedroom and dropped between the unmade sheets, cursing himself for not taking his shirt off before taking care of his nose; pulling it over his head would be agony now. 

_No importa_ , he thought. Who would care about blood stains on his sheets? Who cared about anything anymore?

Rolling over, he reached for the bottle of Pisco on the nightstand. He didn’t bother using a glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said: I'm having problems with this batch of emotional/psychological whump prompts. I'm better with broken bones or bleeding wounds. They require much less back story, I guess. Which is why this is just a depressing scene with no real ending. *shrugs*


	18. Panic! At The Disco (The Musketeers)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A snowy forest and a head full of ghosts. Don't panic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: #18 panic attacks

Aramis awoke to the smell of blood and snow.

_What in God’s name…?_

The panic was almost instant. He lurched to his knees, shivering. His heart jolted in his chest. The world around him - trees, a leaden sky and snowy ground - was rippling in and out of focus. His head hurt. When he brought his hand up, he found his hair and the side of his face sticky. His glove came away red.

_Oh, please, no._

Struggling to his feet, pulse racing, he saw movement between the trees. 

_Marsac? Had he come back to-_

Aramis clutched his head and took a deep breath. _No._ This wasn’t Savoy. Savoy happened years ago. Time did not repeat itself. It didn’t, it-

The shadows seemed to come alive as he looked around him, clueless as to where he was or how he’d got here, but when he squinted at the tree line, he didn’t see anyone. All he heard was his own breath and the crunch of his boots sinking deep into the snow as he staggered across the small clearing. His clothes were frozen stiff on one side, his hat was missing. Looking down, he saw his rapier swinging from his belt, but no musket. Hoofprints had kicked up the snow where he stood, leading away in a trail - a single animal had fled this place. 

_Had he been on horseback and fallen?_

Aramis waited for memories to flood back in, but he drew a complete blank. There was nothing. The last thing he remembered was kneeling down for his evening prayers beside his bunk.

_Head wound. He had a head wound._

With shaking fingers, he probed his skull again. His hands were so cold inside the gloves, he could barely feel anything, but he thought there was a lump above his temple, and touching it stung. Dried blood was caking the collar of his shirt and had soaked into his leather doublet. He must have bled quite a lot. 

_Memory loss. A concussion?_

It was at least that, judging by the nausea building in his stomach, the dizziness and his compromised vision. He could see a little better now, but when he moved his head, the blurriness returned. Not much he could do about that now. But he had to do something about the cold. He had to find shelter.

The snap of a twig made him turn around. The shadows between the trees had darkened - it had to be afternoon. Again, Aramis didn’t see anything. It must have been an animal. Another worry to add to his list. 

_Where was his pistol?_

He stumbled back to the spot where he’d woken up, brightly marked with his own blood and the shape of his body pressed into the snow. His spine tingled and his head throbbed as he searched the ground. Behind a tree trunk, badly visible in a bed of rotting leaves, he found what he’d been looking for: he picked his pistol up and brushed the snow off before tucking it back into his belt. 

_Better._

His hat, however, was nowhere to be found, and he eventually gave up on it. The sky was beginning to darken. Nightfall couldn’t be far away, and the temperature was dropping even further. His headache had been a distraction from the cold, but Aramis was shivering so wildly now that he could barely control his hands anymore. He tucked them under his armpits and decided to move. 

The snow was deep, and walking was hard work. Soon, his breath was coming in quick gasps, and his head was throbbing ever more painfully from the exertion. At least moving warmed him up a little. He was still shivering, but not as badly as before. Or, possibly, his hypothermia had moved past the point of freezing. In that case…

Aramis didn’t finish the thought. He ploughed on, wondering where his comrades were. Had he been on a solo mission? A private affair? A memory tickled his brain but refused to surface. 

Night fell as suddenly as Aramis had feared. What little light there had been, vanished with barely a warning, and Aramis found himself trudging through a landscape lit obscurely by moonlight on snow. Wind rustled the dry leaves. Shadows sidled between the trees.

_That was when the ghosts came._

He’d held them bravely at bay. But exhaustion mixed with the effects of his head injury now, and reality - as hard as he’d clung to it - was receding. The snow glittered. Mist collected in the shadows and reshaped into faces. White faces. Dead faces. 

_Marcel. Christian. Bruno. Severin._

Aramis shook his head to clear it. It was no use. His heart beat in his throat.

_Jurek. Davide. Sebastien. Denis._

Milky-eyed and with open mouths, his fallen brothers gathered around him. He stopped. Fear reached deep into his chest and clamped around his heart. In spite of the cold, he broke into a sweat.

 _Mario. Bernard. Timoté. Martin._

They stood to muster, with a caved-in skull, a shredded shoulder, a gaping stomach wound and a slashed throat.

Aramis tried to chase the images away like the crows he’d once chased away from their dead bodies. He stopped walking and stood swaying in the snow, staring wild-eyed into the darkness. 

_It’s not real. You’re not real. You’re not-_

Something brushed past his cheek. It could have been anything - a gust of wind, a bat, a figment of his imagination. But it sent him over the edge.

Panting, he sank down on his knees. His heart hammered in his ears. He couldn’t breathe. Panicked, he wanted to move, to run. But he couldn’t. He was frozen in place, frozen in the snow, frozen to the ground that was cold and wet and soaking into his knees like blood. 

_Alain. Fabien. Christophe. Pablo._

Their fingers, white and spidery and _dead_ reached for him, their faces tableaus of rotting horror.

Aramis _screamed_ , but no sound came. He screamed inside, and his head wanted to split, and even if it did, he wasn’t sure he cared. A keening sound made it past his lips as he cradled his head and curled in on himself. 

_Alone._ He was alone, being torn to shreds by the ghosts of Savoy, and no one was going to save him this time. No one was-

“Aramis!”

Instinctively, he fought against the voice and the hands touching him. Eyes closed, he clawed at the creature about to pull him into Hell.

“Aramis, stop it! Look at me!”

With a gasp, Aramis tore his eyes open. And looked into Porthos’ worried face.

He was too real to be a ghost. He hadn’t been at Savoy. He smelled of horse and leather and gun oil. He _smelled_ real. 

“Aramis?” Brown eyes, so familiar, so _safe_ , bore into his.

“Porthos?” Aramis could only whisper. But he could also breathe. 

“Yeah. I’m here.” His big hands remaining on Aramis, the musketeer shouted over his shoulder: “HE’S HERE! I found him!”

Muffled hoofbeats on snow. The snapping of twigs. Blue coated riders. They, too, were too real to be ghosts.

When Athos and d’Artagnan reached them and slid off their horses, Aramis found himself cradled in Porthos arms, sobbing with relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one sounded better when I wrote it in my head. When I finally typed it down today, I had no time to look anything up or edit or just scrap the whole thing and start over. So this is basically what it looks like when I post a first draft. *pained face* It is what it is now. Moving on.


	19. Broken Hearts (Cormoran Strike)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a cemetary in Whitechapel, a ritual is being established.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: #19 grief, mourning loved one

Black roses. He hadn’t even known there was such a thing. He also didn’t know where Shanker had rounded them up, but here they were, a whole dozen of them, tossed onto Leda’s grave with overplayed dismissiveness before the wiry small-time criminal plopped down beside Strike and handed him a bottle of beer.

“To your mum, Bunsen,” Shanker toasted, and their bottles clinked against each other. “Fuckin’ shame. She was an angel.”

Strike was inclined to disagree with the latter, but on this night, the first anniversary of his mother’s death, he was too busy swallowing the lump in his throat to object. So instead, he grunted hoarsely and took a deep swig, steadying himself while Shanker, that hard bastard, sniffed audibly and didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed about shedding a few tears.

“Bloody fuckin’ shame,” Shanker repeated morosely.

They had to make an odd pair, sitting on the grass by the grave - short, weed-thin Shanker with his ginger hair and a fresh gap in his front teeth and big, burly, dark-haired Strike in his Army fatigues. The thief and the SIB aspirant. If it hadn’t been for Strike’s mother, their worlds never would’ve overlapped, let alone thrown them into a curious friendship that was built on loyalty and not laws.

“Nice gravestone,” Shanker commented, waving his beer at the guitar-shaped monolith newly erected on Leda Strike’s grave. “She would’ve loved that.” 

More sniffing and swigging.

“Yeah.” 

Strike wasn’t keen on talking tonight, and he appreciated that Shanker didn’t mind his monosyllabic replies. Their camaraderie, after all, had never been about talk, but about action. They’d had each others’ backs ever since Leda had dragged the injured, homeless teenager into their squat and Cormoran had found an unlikely ally in him when it came to protecting his mother from her own bad decisions and from her equally bad boyfriends. 

“Ya leaving’ tonight?”

Shanker pointed his chin at the duffel bag Strike was leaning against.

“Nah. Tomorrow. Gotta be back at the barracks for evening muster. Flying out to Greece the day after.”

“Case?” 

“Yup. Assisting. They’re not giving me my own cases yet.”

Shanker shook his head.

“Can’t believe you’re a copper now.”

Cormoran pulled his sad face into the semblance of a smirk. “Relax! _Army_ cop. I’m not here to arrest you.”

Shanker huffed. “Yeah. You’re sayin’ that now.”

Getting serious again, Cormoran gave him a friendly shove with his shoulder that almost made his friend spill his beer.

“Never, mate,” he said earnestly. “Not as long as you keep what you’re doing out of my sight. A deal’s a deal.”

Shanker shoved him back. Cormoran, turned into a 6’3’’ block of muscle by his Army training, didn’t even blink.

“Where ya stayin’ tonight? Wanna bunk with me?”

Reaching for a second bottle from the sixpack he’d brought, Strike shook his head.

“Thanks, but I’m staying with Charlotte.”

Shanker hissed. 

“That vampire still suckin’ you?” He cackled at his own, unintended joke. 

“She’s not a vampire,” Strike grumbled back. “You don’t know her the way I do. She has a side that’s-”

“-not throwin’ stuff at you and screamin’ naked in the street?” Shanker had twisted his scarred face into a sarcastic grimace.

Strike growled back. “It wasn’t like that!”

“Oh, so she was only half-naked!” Shanker cackled again but stopped when he saw Strike’s dark expression. They were friends, but there were lines that shouldn’t be crossed, and Charlotte had drawn one between them. 

“Sorry, mate,” Shanker relented. “Guess there’s somethin’ to her that I ain’t seein’.”

“Yeah. There is, arsehole.”

Cormoran let his glare taper off. That fight with Charlotte had turned into unforeseen melodrama, and while he’d become used to his girlfriend’s eccentricity and even felt weirdly aroused by it, sometimes her personality scared him. Maybe it was a good thing that the Army was putting some distance between them. 

“Your mum would’ve liked her,” Shanker said in an effort at reconciliation. 

It was Cormoran’s turn to huff. “You’re probably right about that.”

There’d been few people Leda _hadn’t_ liked, and, in combination with her generous heart and bad judgement, it had often driven Cormoran’s mother down the road to disaster. Fragile and unpredictable like Charlotte, she would’ve welcomed Cormoran’s girlfriend with open arms.

“Like I said,” Shanker repeated. “Great woman, your mum.”

“Yeah.” Cormoran stared at the gravestone. His throat hurt. “Yeah, she was.”

They clinked bottles again and drank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no clue and I had no time to check if I got the timeline wrong about Leda's death, Cormoran joining the Army and being with Charlotte. But Galbraith is pretty cavalier about continuity in the books, so who cares if I am even worse?
> 
> Also: I've never written Shanker before, because I find his accent so difficult to put on paper. I did my best, keeping it light, and I hope it was good enough.


	20. Toto, I Have A Feeling We're Not In Kansas Anymore (Star Trek: Picard)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Rios gets injured on a mission, his crew has to resort to old school methods to save his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: #20 field medicine

_“Ow!_ Are you fucking kidding me?!”

Rios hissed through clenched teeth, staring at his shoulder in disbelief. An arrow was protruding from it, its head deeply buried in his flesh.

“Cris!” 

Agnes dropped to one knee beside him, blue eyes anxious.

“Stay down!” 

That was Elnor, his phaser spitting fire at the handful of natives they definitely _shouldn’t_ have underestimated. More arrows clattered against the pile of boulders they were sheltering behind.

“Ow, _dios_ , fucking hell!”

Rios was writhing on the ground like one of those idiots in an old cowboy movie, too _stupid_ to take cover when the shit hit the fan.

“Don’t move! Stay still! Cris!”

Agnes had her hands on his chest and hip, trying to keep him from rolling. She looked afraid but determined in that shaky, fierce way she had when things went out of control. And keeping still _was_ probably a good idea when you had an arrow stuck in you, so Rios made an effort at complying, hissing another curse to channel his pain and fury.

_This was not how a first contact was supposed to go down._

“That’s it. Hold still.” 

Rios rolled his head as much as the pain allowed to see what Agnes was doing. She took one look, then ripped his shirt open around the arrow shaft and inspected what they were dealing with. A little nauseous, Cris saw the arrow sticking out of his skin below his collarbone, shuddering with each breath he took, blood oozing up around the shaft and smearing his chest.

“Shit.” 

Agnes tore her bandana from her neck and pressed it down around the wound. Rios bit back a scream.

“Picard!” She shouted into her comm badge. “We’re under attack! The captain’s been hit! Beam us up immediately!”

The reply was quick and disheartening: _“Negative. Their defense system is blocking our transporter signal. I can’t get a lock.”_

Oh, _come on!_ They were shooting _arrows_ , but their technology outsmarted _La Sirena’s?!_

Cris groaned.

Over Agnes’ shoulder, he saw Elnor rise cautiously and sweep the sight of his phaser across the landscape. But he’d stopped shooting, and the shower of arrows had ceased.

“Cris is hurt,” he heard Agnes shout urgently. “He needs medical assistance, and he needs it now!”

 _“I’m sorry, doctor Jurati,”_ the Emergency Engineering Hologram’s voice responded in Picard’s stead. _“We’re tryna find a work-around, but I dinna ken how long that’ll take.”_

“And Emil?” Agnes sounded anxious. “Can you send him down at least?”

 _“Negative.”_ That was the clean British accent of the EMH. _“Holographic patterns are blocked as well. I will have to assist you from here. At least the bioscanners are working. Captain Rios’ vitals are indicating a traumatic injury including blood loss. What exactly _is_ the nature of his medical emergency?”_

Agnes groaned, tipping her head back to close her eyes for a second of endless frustration. Rios fought down a surge of fear. They were stranded, he was wounded with no help available, and if Agnes fell apart now…

But she didn’t. Rios saw her pull herself together. She took a deep breath, murmured a quick “okay”, and when she opened her eyes again, they were filled with new determination. 

“He has an arrow stuck in his left shoulder, below his collarbone, close to the joint,” she reported. “There’s bleeding, but it doesn’t look arterial.”

 _“Copy that,”_ Emil’s voice came back. _“Your observations concur with my readings. Do you see an exit wound?”_

The bastard sounded _intrigued._

Agnes touched Rios’ face. “Can you roll a little? I need to check your back.”

Cris nodded back and did as told. Gingerly, he shifted his body weight to his right side and lifted his left to turn on his side. 

_Ow. Ow. Ow._

He felt Agnes slide her hand behind his back and run it across his shoulder blade.

“Okay. It didn’t go through.” She exhaled. “No exit wound.”

Gently, she helped him back into his flat position.

“Meaning the head’s embedded inside,” said a matter-of-fact voice. “It will be all the more difficult to get it out.”

Elnor had joined them, apparently finished with their attackers. Judging by his usual efficiency, they were all lying stunned in the grass, out for the next hour or so. He’d had orders from Picard not to shoot to kill, and he mostly took orders seriously.

“Thanks for your candor,” Cris gritted out. “As usual, it’s very refreshing.”

The Romulan squatted down beside him, unperturbed, but he rested one hand on Rios’ arm in a comforting gesture. His honesty had nothing to do with unkindness.

“We’re not taking the arrow out here, Elnor,” Agnes informed them both. “We’ll leave that to Emil once we have Cris back on board.”

“Good idea,” Rios rasped. Agnes was still pressing the bandana down on his wound, and every time her fingers only so much as brushed against the arrow shaft, pain flared up sickeningly, burrowing along a fiery path through his shoulder. He couldn’t even imagine the agony of pulling the damn thing out without anesthesia.

 _“I’m afraid we can’t wait that long,”_ the EMH chimed in. _“The scans tell me that Captain Rios’ system is being compromised by a class B biotoxin. I assume the arrowhead was coated with it.”_

 _Chesumadre._

At least it explained the curious pins-and-needles feeling that had sprung up in Cris’ hands and feet. Unless that was related to shock, and Cris was pretty sure that shock _was_ an item on the getting-shot-by-an-arrow checklist.

He craned his neck to look at Agnes. She looked… spooked. 

“What’s a… class B biotoxin?” Elnor asked, sounding both curious and worried.

“It’s a type of poisonous agent that affects the central nervous system,” she explained, reverting to professionalism while Cris could see the worry in her eyes. “It paralyzes the muscles. Type B means it’s slower-acting, which is good, because it gives us a little time, otherwise…”

She put one hand against Cris’ neck, feeling his pulse, and bent lower to check his eyes.

“Do you feel any symptoms? Any numbness or weakness?”

Cris swallowed. “I have pins and needles in my hands and feet.”

Admittedly, the pain and the fear were slowly getting to him. He was used to the EMH materializing by his side in any case of emergency, wielding his tricorder and hyposprays and generally getting on his nerves while fixing him up. He was also used to stoically waving the hologram away and dealing with minor injuries on his own. But this wasn’t minor, and he could feel it. 

Agnes’ cheeks flushed with worry.

“Can you squeeze my hand?”

She’d placed hers into his right, good one. Rios closed his fingers around hers and squeezed, but his grip felt odd, tingly, and from the way Agnes’ forehead creased he could tell something was wrong.

“Weakness in his right hand,” she spoke loudly into her comm unit. “I can’t check his left because of the injury.”

 _“Noted.”_ There was a moment of silence before the EMH spoke again, his voice sounding uncommonly grave. _“Doctor Jurati, you have to remove the arrow, and you have to do it quickly.”_

_Oh fuck._

To Rios’ surprise, Agnes nodded without hesitation. She looked shaken, but like someone who had seen this coming. Her hand still held Cris’, and it was dry and warm.

“Affirmative,” she said. “How do I do it?”

 _“There is a small med kit in your backpack,”_ the EMH replied.

Elnor grabbed the backpack that she’d shucked off during the attack and pulled a silver case out from its bottom.

“I have it!”

 _“Open it,”_ Emil instructed. _“It should hold disinfectant, bandages, a laser scalpel, a dermal regenerator and a hypospray with several loading vials.”_

While Rios watched Agnes rifle through the kit, her lips moving as she read the medication labels to herself, he noticed a certain detachment overcoming him. Pain was still fanning out across his shoulder, reaching into his back and chest, but he somehow seemed to care less. The tingling sensation was creeping up his arms and legs. _Was this shock or the poison?_

“Agnes,” he rasped. “I… I feel strange.”

She stopped rummaging and stared at him. Her eyes were intense.

“What do you mean, ‘strange’?”

“I don’t… numb. Weird.” 

It was true. His body felt heavy, and the tingling sensation had reached his stomach and neck. His thoughts as well felt… shrouded. 

Agnes tore her eyes away from him and looked up, into the sky. “Emil? Did you hear this?”

_“I did. We need to hurry, Doctor Jurati.”_

Rios listened with increasing difficulty as the EMH listed instructions. Something about cutting wide enough to evacuate the arrowhead in one piece and about using the dermal regenerator to help get the bleeding under control. Something else about _not_ cutting the axillary artery and staying clear of the radial nerve. Sadly, he didn’t catch anything about anesthetics, and he felt too sluggish to ask.

Agnes’ face reappeared in his line of vision. She brushed her blond curls out of her face and gave him a shaky smile.

“Okay, Cris. I’m going to be as quick as I can, but it’s going to hurt. Elnor will help you keep still.” 

She blinked, blue eyes braver than anyone could have guessed she could be, and he met her gaze in silent trust. Elnor’s face hovered into view next to hers as he got into position, giving Cris a firm, wordless nod. 

The EMH’s voice returned: _“Ready, doctor Jurati?”_

“Ready.”

Agnes pressed a hypospray to his neck that made him feel lightheaded. Elnor’s arms came down across his chest and hips, and Cris saw white-blue light flash as Agnes lifted the laser scalpel. Then the pain came. It bit into him, the smell of blood mixing with that of cauterized flesh, and he _gasped_. But the pain didn’t let up, and Agnes didn’t stop. He felt the laser cutting deep into his shoulder, relentless, and Cris arched his head back and released a scream. Elnor held him down, murmuring strings of Romulan - _prayers?_ And Cris screamed, and Agnes cut, and the disembodied voice of the EMH drifted from the sky, and then Cris thought he would lose his mind as Agnes grabbed the arrow tightly and pulled it up, pulled it through muscle and tissue and skin with a sick, slurping sound, and then, _gracias a dios_ \- darkness.

The pain wasn’t gone when he came to, an indefinite amount of lost time later, on _La Sirena’s_ transporter pad, cradled in Elnor’s and Agnes’ arms, but the EMH was already bearing down on him with a hypospray. A hiss. A cool sensation, and then the pain ebbed away, and so did his fear at seeing his own chest splattered with blood and smeared all over Agnes. Cris heard voices, saw faces, but he couldn’t move, didn’t want to move. He only wanted to know if it was over and if he could go to sleep without worrying if he would ever wake up again.

He felt himself being lifted onto something soft, and, on his back, stared at the ceiling of the transporter room, then at Agnes leaning over him as they moved. 

Her cheeks were wet, but she was smiling as she placed her hand on his forehead.

“It’s over. You’re okay.”

Cris closed his eyes and went to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one completely got away from me. It became too long, I was getting lost in details and explanations again, and it took a more dramatic turn than intended. Even Rios lost his snark along the way.
> 
> I really appreciate that y'all are bearing with me as I stumble towards the finish line.


	21. I Don’t Feel So Well (The Musketeers)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Musketeers wage a war against an invisible enemy.
> 
> (written with a nod to @Greenlips24 and her wonderful series “Infirmary Talks”)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: #21 infection

The fever swept through the garrison like a wildfire, and, like a fire, they fought it with their bare hands and as much water as they could carry. An endless string of buckets was passed into the infirmary by those who had recovered or not fallen ill. Inside, the carers poured the water into bowls, jugs and kettles. Helping hands coaxed mouthfuls past cracked lips and cooled feverish brows. They washed their sick comrades and laundered sweat-drenched sheets. Heated, the water was used to clean medical instruments or soothe congested lungs with hot steam. 

And still, the fever burned through the men.

Doctor Lemay had never washed his hands as much as in the last two weeks. His skin was raw from soap and water, but he’d learned that cleanliness was beneficial during any kind of epidemic, and so far he’d been among the few not having succumbed to the fever yet. Drying his hands on a towel, he let his gaze sweep over the twenty beds they’d crammed into the infirmary. Eighteen of them were occupied on this day, and Lemay had a feeling the worst wasn’t over yet. 

No one knew what or who had brought this particularly vicious form of an ague to Paris, but it had infested the city within days. Lemay had reacted quickly, advising the King and his family to leave for their country retreat and not come back until the fever had burnt itself out, and, to his astonishment, the King had listened. Following his hippocratic oath, Lemay had stayed behind to help the afflicted - and found himself in charge of the garrison infirmary when the fever finally swept through the King’s own regiment.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

D’Artagnan had appeared beside him on shaky legs. Young and strong, his body had fought the invader fiercely and quickly: His fever had broken this very morning, and the rash that had come with it was already fading. 

“You can go back to bed, young man,” Doctor Lemay told him sternly. “You’re barely past the worst, and you’re no use to me fainting onto these floorboards.”

As expected, the musketeer opened his mouth to protest: “But I can-”

“You can shut up and lie back down,” Constance Bonacieux’s voice cut him off.

The young woman had been a godsend. Capable, healthy and unafraid, she’d reported for nursing duty as soon as the first musketeers had fallen ill, and she’d been invaluable in their care ever since. Friends with several of the soldiers, she seemed to feel particularly attracted to the young musketeer from Lupiac. When his fever had spiked two days ago, she’d barely left his side, and now that he was recovering, Lemay watched the two of them exchanging passionate glances across the infirmary in spite of the misery surrounding them. The fact that Constance was a married woman appeared to be of minor importance.

“Honestly, Constance,” d’Artagnan insisted. “I’m fine. Fine enough to help the men-”

 _“Bed.”_ Constance threw him a glare that brooked no argument. _“Now.”_

Sighing, d’Artagnan rolled his eyes and wobbled back to his cot where he plopped down with an audible sigh.

Lemay couldn’t suppress a smile. Moments like these were a welcome ray of sunshine in otherwise dark days. They’d lost two musketeers to the fever so far, and at least four of the men in the infirmary were fighting a battle Lemay wasn’t sure they’d win. 

Athos was sitting with one of them, gently washing the man’s face and arms while murmuring encouragement to the half-delirious man. The taciturn lieutenant remained a mystery to Lemay, looking at the world from underneath the brim of his hat with cool reserve, but displaying an unexpected amount of compassion for his fellow-soldiers now. Athos had been among the first to catch the disease, and it had hit him badly enough to still look pale and a little lost in his clothes two weeks later, and yet he’d barely allowed himself any rest. His reputation as a ruthless swordsman preceded him as well as his men’s admiration, and Lemay had witnessed his natural leadership at work when he’d reorganized the infirmary with Aramis as soon as he could stand without assistance.

True to their nickname, the _Inseparables_ , he also never strayed far from the bed in the quietest corner of the room where Porthos was sleeping. The big streetfighter had been felled by the fever like a tree, and he’d only turned the corner yesterday. Athos and Aramis had tirelessly cooled him down and dribbled water and medicine into his mouth while also taking care of d’Artagnan and the rest of their comrades. Hardened men, none of them had been ashamed to hide their fear of losing their brother. Lemay had watched them pray, and one of them had always held Porthos’ hand as if they could physically anchor him to this world. They’d fought, fought hard, and they had won.

Not all of these men would be so lucky. Aramis was kneeling by an older musketeer’s bed this very moment, giving him the Last Rites. His dark head sunken in prayer, one hand on the dying man’s forehead, his soldier’s uniform was clashing strikingly with his clerical behaviour. The man was a contradiction in himself. A gifted marksman, he was also a man of faith and a gifted healer. He took life with one hand and saved it with the other. Aramis also had the reputation of being a womanizer, and judging by his dashing appearance and easy charm, Lemay easily believed it.

However, women had played no role in the last two weeks for this man who’d rolled up his sleeves and run himself ragged helping Lemay run the infirmary. He’d nursed Athos through his fever, then Porthos and d’Artagnan while never neglecting his duties for the other patients. His personal arsenal of herbal remedies had proven helpful, his medical knowledge surprising, and Lemay could not remember seeing him sleep.

Lemay’s heart sank when he saw Aramis stop in his prayers, cross himself and gently pull the blanket up over the man’s face. The solemn words “Go with God” drifted to his ears, and the men in the other beds fell silent. One of them started crying, and d’Artagnan went to take the man in his arms.

Aramis stood up and walked over to Lemay.

“Gilbert,” he said somberly, pointing his chin at the deceased. “He was in the regiment for more than fifteen years. Treville will be devastated.”

Constance joined them, looking sad but composed. 

“We should give them a few minutes and then move him,” she suggested firmly. “We’ll need the bed.”

Lemay nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

“I’ll wash him and gather his things,” Aramis said, but Lemay frowned when he saw him swaying on his feet.

Constance had noticed as well.

“Aramis?” she asked. “Are you all right?”

The marksman nodded, suppressing a shudder.

“I don’t think you are,” Lemay disagreed and grabbed Aramis by the shoulders. He could feel the man’s body heat through the fabric of his shirt.

“Oh, Aramis…” Constance touched his forehead and pulled her hand back, wincing. “Why didn’t you say something?”

The marksman looked back at her from glazed eyes and shook his head.

“I thought I was only tired. I didn’t notice…”

As if pulled by an invisible string, Athos had appeared at Aramis’ side. He gave his brother one taxing look, then sighed.

“You, my friend, belong in bed.” 

He made it sound light, but Lemay saw worry flickering behind the cool veneer. Like the other three, Aramis was a healthy man in his late twenties, never one to stay down for long when ill, but this fever picked its victims according to its own rules. They had a few long days and nights ahead of them until they’d know if Aramis as well would come out on the other side.

For a moment, it looked as if their new patient was going to put up a fight. 

“I-...” he started, then broke off when his legs wobbled underneath him. Swiftly, Athos grabbed him around the waist and Constance slipped his arm across her shoulders.

“I’m afraid you’re right,” the marksman continued, bravado flagging. “I’m sorry.”

Lemay wasn’t sure what the musketeer was apologizing for. Falling ill? No longer being able to care for his patients? For worrying his brothers? 

_These men_ , the doctor thought in wonder as he watched Aramis being led to a bed and helped into it with tender gestures and uplifting words. They killed without scruple on the battlefield. They knew no fear, and one would think them callous and unfeeling. But here, within the walls of the infirmary, he’d seen the men underneath the armour. He’d seen compassion, care, bravery and love. He’d understood why they didn’t speak of themselves as soldiers. _Brothers._ These men were brothers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this one, for very obvious reasons, felt eerie. 
> 
> And it made me wish that all of us acted more like brothers (and sisters), and not like self-absorbed dickheads.


	22. Do These Tacos Look Funny To You? (Cormoran Strike)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This time, it really _was_ the chicken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I typed this one down with a bad headache, which usually means I'm overlooking typos in abundance. Screw it. I got it done, and that's what counts!

Robin hesitates at the door to Strike’s flat, but then she decides to knock. After all, he hasn’t shown up for work, and he hasn’t answered his phone, but she’s heard noises from upstairs. Something isn’t right. It takes forever, but finally she hears Strike approach in his custom hop-step. It is not a good sign when he’s not wearing his prosthesis in the middle of the day. 

The old lock rattles open from inside, then the door opens a crack. Strike’s face appears in it, and he looks horrible: deathly pale, clammy, hair sticking up in places. What she can see of him is dressed in an old t-shirt and boxers.

“Robin,” he says in a weak voice, wiping a hand across his face. “Sorry. I should’ve let you know. Not feeling so well today.”

She grimaces. “I can see that. What’s going on?”

Not long ago, it would’ve been a question too private to ask. Particularly when “not feeling well” might have involved Strike’s leg. But it’s clearly not his leg this time, and, after all, they’ve seen each other through panic attacks and wrenched knees and too much alcohol in the meantime, and that particular barrier has fallen.

“Food poisoning,” Strike groans, rubbing his stomach. “I had take-out with Nick and Ilsa last night. They have it too.”

“Ugh.” Robin pulls a face. “Sounds horrible. Is there anything I can do? Anything you need?”

Strike opens his mouth and starts to form a “no”, but then he seems to reconsider.

“Actually, yes,” he says, sounding embarrassed. “I’ve been puking my guts out, and I could use something for the nausea. If you don’t mind, could you…?”

“On it,” Robin replies, and she has to push down a feeling of inappropriate joy. It’s an immense step for Cormoran to let someone help him, even when it’s about such a small thing as running to the pharmacy to fetch him some pills. “I’ll go and get you something. Go back to bed. I won’t be a minute!”

“Thanks, Robin.” He nods, in that shy, boyish way he has when he feels insecure. It’s rare, and it always makes Robin blush. “I wouldn’t ask you to if-”

“It’s fine. Really.” She is already turning to leave. “I’ll be quick.”

XXX

Fifteen minutes later Robin is back at Denmark Street with two bags of shopping. When Cormoran opens the door - in an old blue bathrobe now, otherwise not looking any better - she holds the bags up with a nervous smile.

“I got you a few things. Let me in? You can’t carry these, so… I’ll just put them where you need them and get out of your hair.”

Strike is too astounded and possibly too sick to object. He lets her pass, and Robin strides in, ignoring the faint smell of vomit from the tiny bathroom, and dumps the bags onto Strike’s small kitchen table.

“Medication,” she starts, pulling several items from the pharmacy bag and showing the labels to Strike as she puts them down. “For nausea, diarrhea, fever. And I got you an electrolyte powder to mix into water.”

Strike, closing the door behind him, stares at her in bleary wonder. 

From the second bag, Robin retrieves crackers, pretzel sticks, toast, white rice, bananas, tea and ginger ale. 

“Once you can keep down fluids, start with the crackers and build up from there. It’s Linda Ellacott’s patented stomach flu diet. Works on food poisoning as well.”

Robin shrugs, cheeks pink, and gives Strike an uplifting, somewhat awkward grin. She has a feeling she may be overstepping, but she can’t help it. If Nick and Ilsa are ill as well, there’s no one Robin knows of that Strike will turn to for help, and the thought of him living on a diet of pain killers, pizza and tap water until he feels better makes her cringe. She’d rather he be mad at her than dehydrated and miserable in his flat.

Strike hops the three steps to his bed and sinks down with a groan. He clutches his stomach, eyes pinching closed as a cramp comes and goes. When he opens his eyes again, he looks embarrassed, lost - and grateful.

“Robin. I don’t know what to say.”

She smiles in relief. “‘Thanks’ would be good enough.”

He nods, the hint of a smile on his ashen face. “Thanks. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

It’s one of those moments again. One of those where the distance between them seems to close without warning while, at the same time, red lights flash. He looks so vulnerable, so big and soft. She has her heart in her throat and on her tongue. A minute ticks by. The moment passes.

“Anything else I can do for you?” Robin looks around the room, needing to look somewhere else, anywhere but into those glazed green eyes.

“Yeah,” Strike says hoarsely.

 _Anything,_ Robin thinks.

“What?” she says.

Cormoran smirks crookedly. “You can go and leave me a bit of dignity while I retreat to the bathroom.”

“Oh!” She hurries to the door. “You have to-”

“No!” He holds up a hand. “No, _christ_ , not yet.” A faint blush creeps into his pale cheeks. “But I’m definitely gonna have to. And as much as I appreciate everything you just did for me, I’d really prefer to be alone for _that_ part.”

Robin chuckles, nervous, but understanding entirely what he means.

“Alright,” she says, daring to meet his gaze again. “Then I’ll leave you to it.” She turns the doorknob. “Call me if you need anything. I’ll be in the office until six, but you can call me anytime.”

“Thanks.”

Why is it so hard to leave Strike like this - looking and smelling terribly, sitting hunched over between his ridiculous floral sheets with only one leg and in a threadbare bathrobe? 

It _is_ hard to go. But she does.

Robin walks out the door and pulls it closed behind her, hearing Strike release a groan that she’s sure he’s held inside until she was gone. An hour or so from now, she knows she’ll want to sneak back up to check on him, but she won’t. She crossed a line today, and he let her, and she respects him too much to push it. She’ll leave the checking on him for next time.


	23. What's A Whumpee Gotta Do To Get Some Sleep Around Here?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A cosmic anomaly keeps the _Sirena_ crew awake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: #23 sleep deprivation, exhaustion

Hollow-eyed, Rios crossed the bridge to drop into the pilot seat. From the corner of his eye, he saw the Hospitality Hologram shimmering away, but he was too tired to voice his chronic annoyance with that particular crew member, and he secretly had to admit that he was grateful for the cup of tar-black coffee he found steaming within reach. He took a sip of the scalding hot liquid, desperate for a caffeine kick.

“Got any sleep?”

Rios hadn’t even seen Raffi, slumped as she sat in the navigator’s seat. She swiveled around to him with hanging shoulders, her curls wilder than ever, the rings under her eyes so dark they looked like bruises.

“No,” Cris sighed. “You?”

It was a rhetorical question, really, and Raffi huffed, pointing at her face. “Do I _look_ like I slept?”

Fact was, none of them had slept in three days - except for Picard, who was out like a light in his quarters after the EMH had insisted on dosing him with a narcotic, worried about the old man’s heart. Sleep deprivation, he’d lectured them, could kill, and Rios was starting to believe him. Only that he was close to killing someone. _Anyone_ , honestly. After nearly seventy-two hours of being trapped, with an offline engine, in a cosmic phenomenon that was somehow affecting their brainwaves, Rios was suffering from a very short fuse. 

The most enraging part: While Raffi, Picard and him - the only human crew members on board at the moment - were turning into zombies, the holograms remained completely unaffected. Bright-eyed, and bushy-tailed, they zipped through _La Sirena’s_ decks, running system checks and analyzing scans and fiddling with the ship’s engine, driving Rios _crazy_ with their limitless energy and chipper mood. 

_Too bad that a hologram didn’t die when you choked it with your bare hands._

Rios threw a murderous glance at Emmet, the hologram currently slumbering in his seat in front of the tactical controls. He was the worst to bear, falling asleep in an instant as soon as his code told him he was sitting and no hostile activity required him to be awake. Feet propped up on the console, head tipped back and mouth open, he was currently snoring obliviously. And as a hologram, he didn’t even _need_ to sleep.

Rios’ fingers involuntarily curled into claws.

“What is the nature of your psychiatric emergency?”

The EMH had materialized beside him and, hands in his pockets, was studying him with professional concern.

“You heart rate is elevated, your blood pressure is climbing, and your cortisol output-”

“Deactivate!”

“But Captain, I am…”

_“Deactivate!”_

The hologram disappeared with an affronted _poof._

“Nice,” Raffi commented sardonically, chin propped up on a weary arm. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

Cris meant to roll his eyes, but it would worsen his headache, so he left it. Scrubbing his hand across his face, he tried to knit a clear string of thoughts together in his increasingly unreliable brain.

“We need to get away from here, Raff,” he said darkly.

She blinked tiredly. “I know.”

And it was true. What had felt like a weird anomaly three days ago - their impulse and warp drive dying suddenly, then the insomnia - had escalated into a dangerous crisis. In spite of incessant work, they hadn’t been able to bring the engines back online, and they didn’t need the EMH’s lectures to point out the consequences of sleep deprivation. They felt them.

Physical exhaustion was the least of it. Cris could get past the headache, the soreness, the nausea and the dizziness. But the tricks the insomnia played on his mind were an altogether different thing. He could no longer concentrate on anything for more than a few minutes, and his short term memory had gone to fritz. It was bad enough that the tiredness was affecting his eyesight, causing the EMH to suggest reading glasses and almost getting his programming wiped by an infuriated Cris. But now he was starting to _see things._

Hallucinations. They were a well-known but nevertheless deeply disturbing side-effect, and Cris, all too familiar with the phenomenon from his breakdown after the _Ibn Majid_ disaster, was once more stalked by demons he thought he’d laid to rest. Captain Vandemeer had visited him in his quarters when he’d been staring into the darkness last night, sleepless, but too exhausted to remain on his feet. The top of his head gone, blood and brain matter dripping from the ceiling, Vandemeer had looked at Cris with opaque eyes, and it had taken half a bottle of Pisco to make him disappear. 

Rios punched a button on his holographic controls. 

“Ean!” He barked. “Status report!”

 _“We’re still offline, Cap’n,”_ came the instant reply. _“But Enoch thinks he may be on to something. There’s a pattern of sub-photon waves that seems to be targeting the temperature sensors with galandrion radiation, effectively-”_

“Only the bottom line, Ean,” Cris cut him off. His brain had shot down after “sub-photon waves”, unable to process anything more complicated than a spaghetti recipe. 

_“Bottom line?”_ Ean repeated. _“We’re working on it, Cap’n.”_

“What Ean means,” Enoch picked up, flickering into existence on the bridge with an avid expression, “is that we think we’re close to solving the problem. Now, if the scan check that I reprogrammed to include sub-photonic and pseudo nano-neurologic patterns reveals that not only the temperature sensors but also the newtonian reverse weight-speed effect of-”

 _“Callate!”_ Cris shot up from his seat. “Shut the fuck- _Jesus!_ ” 

He’d closed up to the ENH in two strides, right fist pulled back to punch, and he’d managed to rein himself in only at the very last moment. He shook out his arms, trembling, trying to get rid of the tension and the shock he felt at his near loss of control.

Eyebrows raised in innocent wonder, Enoch cocked his head.

“Captain?” he asked kindly. “Would you like me to re-activate Emil? I am sure he could provide you with a sedative, if you’d like.”

Rios shot around again, blood boiling. All of a sudden, the bridge’s ambient lights felt too bright, and the cluster of stars visible through the panoramic window seemed to move forward, speeding up, threatening to attack and swallow _La Sirena._

“Emmet!” Cris yelled. “Deflector shields!”

The ETH jerked awake and blinked at his screens in confusion. _“Que? No veo nada.”_

Raffi had gripped the arms of her seat and was looking at Rios in alarm.

“Babe,” she said anxiously and got up. “There’s nothing out there. You have to… Here.” She grabbed his arm and tried to lead him back to his chair. “Here, sit down.”

“What?!”

Rios glared at her. Raffi’s face looked strange all of a sudden. It… reshaped. Her hair shrank back into her skull, getting shorter, smoother… white. Her skin brightened, nose widening, her eyes morphing from brown to blue. Stubble appeared, and her clothes… _his_ clothes… a Starfleet uniform with a captain’s badge.

“Sit down, son.”

 _Vandemeer._ Intact, smiling paternally, he gently led Rios to his seat and sat him down. 

Then, still smiling, he lifted a phaser, put it in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

Rios screamed, and he was still screaming when the EMH put a hypospray to his neck and cut his strings.

XXX

“Coffee, babe?”

Rios blinked a veil of deep sleep from his eyes. When his vision sharpened, he saw Raffi’s hand in front of him, balancing a cup that smelled of heaven.

He sat up and stretched before he took the coffee, looking around his cabin. He felt rested, and, to his surprise, he heard the familiar hum of _La Sirena’s_ impulse drive propelling the ship through space at cruising speed.

“We’re back online?”

“Yes. Three days ago.”

 _“Three days ago?!”_ Rios almost spilled his coffee. “How long was I out?”

Raffi smiled, but there was an uncomfortable edge to it. “Three and a half days.”

_“Dios.”_

He racked his brain, memory creeping back in. Memory - and shame. Scratching his beard, he looked at Raffi with unease.

“It was pretty bad, huh?”

“Pretty.” She nodded. Then she placed her hand on his arm and rubbed it gently. “But you weren’t the only one. I cracked a few hours after Emil put you out. He says I was trying to open the cargo hatch to take a walk.” 

Cris lifted astonished brows. _“Good_ idea.” 

Raffi’s worried face softened into a chuckle. “Not one of my best. I’m glad your holos were there to stop me. They’re not entirely useless, you know?”

“Right.” Cris smirked. God, he hadn’t felt this _rested_ in ages. “Not entirely. But please don’t go and tell them I agreed with you on that. Enoch will never stop rubbing it under my nose.”

As if on cue, the EMH materialised at the foot of Rios’ bed.

“Captain Rios,” he said. “I am pleased to see you awake! And your brain waves have returned to a normal pattern. Now, if I could ask you to meet me in sickbay for a thorough scan of your neural-”

“Deactivate!”

Raffi smiled as the hologram begrudgingly dissolved.

“You ready to come back to the bridge, Captain?” she asked Rios, the twinkle back in her eyes. “Or do you need more sleep?”

Cris swung his legs from the bed.

“Sleep is overrated,” he said sardonically and headed off to take a shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a glorious day off today with cake and my family pampering me, and although I didn't think I'd feel the need to pump out a Whumptober ficlet today, this one happened. For once, I am relatively pleased with the outcome. I hope you are as well.


	24. You're Not Making Any Sense & I Think I'll Just Collapse Right Here, Thanks (The Musketeers)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the face. Literally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts: #24 blindfolded, #25 blurred vision, disorientation
> 
> I'm cheating a bit this time. Not having written anything yesterday, I'm combining Days 24 and 25 into one ficlet.
> 
> And I'm breaking my own rule not to post any more two-parters. I never said I was reliable...

Athos was the closest to the church’s beautiful stained-glass window when he heard something fizzle and turned to look. He shouldn’t have. With a flash and a bang, the window bulged and exploded, spraying glass directly into his face. He clamped his eyes shut, but not in time. He cried out as tiny shards burrowed into his skin and into his eyes. Clutching his face, he stumbled back against a pew and fell. 

“Athos!”

“Help him, Aramis! We’ll go after them!”

Athos heard quick footsteps running away and the creaking of the front door. Voices rang outside. Muskets fired. Steel glanced off steel. He tried to look, but - _God_ \- his eyes! Pain bit into them like thorns, mounting to pure agony when he blinked. He felt glass trapped behind his eyelids, scraping across his corneas. Involuntary tears streamed down his cheeks; his nose began to run profusely. 

“Athos!”

He heard Aramis above him, felt hands batting his away from his face.

“Don’t rub! Let me see!”

The soft leather of Aramis’ gloves cupped Athos’ face, and he sensed his friend’s steadying presence. 

“Can you open your eyes?” Aramis asked. “Can you see?”

Athos tried. He forced his eyes open to small slits, but as soon as he did, the pain intensified to a stabbing that almost took his breath away, and he clamped them back shut. His face was slick with tears and - _oh God_ \- was that blood? He could smell iron, mixing with the sharp scent of explosives having gone off.

“I don’t know,” he gasped. “I think I can see something, but…” He moaned, his hands automatically reaching for his face again until Aramis stopped him. “It’s all blurry. It’s… are my eyes bleeding?”

Athos heard the fear in his own voice, but he had to know. 

“Stay still,” Aramis answered. “And I’ll have a look.”

The marksman had that calm air about him now. That firm but reassuring tone that gave whoever had got hurt hope it wasn’t as bad as it felt. 

Athos felt Aramis’ fingers - now without gloves - touch his face, probing gently. His fingertips pulled at the skin above and below his eyes, and Athos gritted his teeth as his lids were slowly prised apart. Immediately, the intense, stabbing pain flared up and more tears spilled from his eyes as he tried to see past the watery blurriness. It was unbearable, and he rolled his head out of Aramis’ grip and pressed his eyes shut again.

“There’s blood, but your eyeballs look intact,” Aramis explained, one hand comfortingly on Athos’ chest as he squirmed on the floor. “You have cuts and nicks on your lids and around your eyes - I think that’s where the blood is coming from. And I suppose you still have glass in your eyes. I have to wash them out.”

Athos heard the plop of a waterskin being uncorked, and he prayed that the water would help. The pain was bad. It felt as if someone was driving needles into his eye sockets.

“I have to open your eyes,” Aramis explained. “Try not to blink and keep still.”

The fingertips returned, and so did the agonizing pain. When Aramis let water drip into his eyes, Athos forced himself to hold still, but he couldn’t quite suppress a whimper. His bootheels scraped over the floor, and he clawed at the rough stone with his fingers.

“I know,” he heard Aramis’ gentle voice. “I know, keep still, I’m almost done.” 

When the water stopped and Aramis released his eyelids, Athos gasped in relief. The stinging was still bad, but he found that, if he kept his eyes closed and still, the pain became manageable. 

“Better?”

“Yes. Thank God, yes.”

Aramis patted his shoulder. 

“Good. I’m going to bandage your eyes. Then we’ll get you home and let Doctor Lemay take a look. Can you sit up?”

Aramis’ weapons belt clinked as he took it off, and Athos heard the swishing of his sash being pulled from his waist. As he pushed himself up to sit, his thoughts were racing.

“Do you think..”, he started, fighting a tremor in his voice, “...do you think there will be permanent damage?”

Water dribbled, and a wet handkerchief was carefully pressed to his eyes, hands guiding his own to hold it in place.

“I can’t say,” Aramis said softly. They were soldiers long enough to refrain from sugarcoating any injuries, and Aramis knew that Athos needed honesty and clarity above all. “I’m not a physician. Let’s wait what Doctor Lemay says.”

When Aramis secured the handkerchief with his sash, rapid footsteps reentered the church. In his shock, Athos had completely forgotten about his brothers.

“How is ‘e?”

“Is it bad?”

Porthos’ heavy and d’Artagnan’s lighter steps came to a halt to Athos’ right and left, hands alighting on his shoulders. 

“He got glass in his eyes,” Aramis explained, tying the sash at the back of Athos’ head. “I rinsed them, but we’ll need Doctor Lemay to look at him.”

D’Artagnan hissed through his teeth, and Porthos grumbled an expletive. Athos could imagine the look of anger and worry on their faces.

“Did you get them?” he asked into the darkness, trying to shift their focus away from his injury.

“Two,” Porthos replied. “One got away. An’ we found a cart stacked with more explosives. I think we interrupted them while they were still riggin’ the church.”

“They were!” D’Artagnan jumped in, but Athos heard the uneasiness in the Gascon’s voice and felt his nervous gaze on him. “They wanted to blow the whole place up! During mass, most likely, with the Duke kneeling in the front pew.”

“So, an assassination attempt,” Athos thought out loud. He groped at the air around him. “Help me up! Treville needs to know about this.”

Hands grabbed him under the armpits, and one bracing arm slid around his back as he stood, gathering his bearings. The wet cloth felt soothing on his face, but he was disoriented in the darkness under the bandage. 

_This isn’t forever,_ Athos told himself, but fear clawed up his spine as he took a step and had to rely on his brother’s aid for balance. 

_What if it was?_

“Don’t worry,” Aramis said, tightening his grip on him. “I’ve got you.”

_(To be continued…)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I'm so busy breaking rules: You won't have to wait three days for the continuation of this fic this time. Tomorrow's prompt, 'blindness' fits perfectly, and I really can't let poor Athos wait, so, if the writing gods are with me, see you tomorrow for the conclusion.


	25. 25. (No.26) If You Thought The Head Trauma Was Bad (The Musketeers)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of 24/25 - After getting injured, Athos is faced with the possibility of permanent damage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: #26 blindness
> 
> Sorry, dear readers! I lost all my steam, and work was crazy these past few weeks. But I said I'd finish Whumptober (in November, ha ha), and I will! It took me forever to wrap this two-parter up, and I wrote this second chapter in fits and starts. In consequence, it feels choppy to me, but I really just want to be done with it now. Seems that not having a deadline hanging over my head makes writing HARDER?!
> 
> Also, to confuse everyone further, the chapter numbers no longer correspond with the Whumtober Day numbers since I had the not-so-glorious idea of squeezing 24 & 25 into a single chapter. And the alternating sequence Strike - Rios - Musketeers has also gone to fritz. And I am posting Whumptober prompt fics in November.
> 
> In other words: It's a mess, but it's a chapter!

Athos had always been a good rider, but now he realized how much of that ability was based on _seeing_. As his horse, tied to d’Artagnan’s, trotted along at what should be a comfortable pace, he had difficulties staying in the saddle. With his eyes bandaged, he had no inkling in which direction they were heading, what kind of ground they were navigating, if they were approaching an ascent or descent, and he was at the complete mercy of his animal’s whims. A few minutes into the ride, he’d given up on holding the reins and had been clinging to the pommel instead, his legs soon hurting from clenching them around the horse’s sides. 

They’d discussed letting him ride together with one of them, but Athos had insisted on using his own mount. His dignity was taking enough of a hit already, and he hated being a burden. At least he had d’Artagnan as his navigator. The best rider of all of them and gifted with horses, he was doing what he could to help Athos, guiding the black Friesian with a calm hand and warning Athos about changes in territory or speed.

Nevertheless, when they reached the garrison, Athos was drenched in sweat and sore all over. Under the bandage, his eyes were sticky and stung incessantly, and he could tell they were swelling shut. The cuts on his face were burning and he felt a little seasick. Although he couldn’t see anything, he could hear the noises of the garrison dying down as they rode into the courtyard. Sparring matches ended abruptly, conversations stopped, and Athos felt curious and concerned eyes on him.

“Come on, slide off that saddle.” Porthos clapped him on the thigh. “I’ll give you a hand.”

Awkwardly, groping for his brother’s arms and shoulders, Athos dismounted and heard d’Artagnan and Aramis ward off fellow-soldiers who’d approached to find out what had happened.

“He’s injured, and we’re taking care of him,” Aramis’ voice rang out. “He’s not in any danger. Go back to your posts and give him some space.”

A background of disconcerted murmurs followed Athos as Porthos led him across the yard, and Athos couldn’t remember ever feeling this exposed and helpless. Porthos had hooked him under, and yet he almost tripped on a protruding cobblestone. Jaw clenched, he forced himself not to stick his arm out to feel for obstacles. He didn’t want to look like a fool.

Inside the infirmary, Porthos deposited him on a chair and, with a squeeze of his arm, left to report to Treville. Athos was grateful for the cool quiet of the room and for the lack of an audience. He’d always hated the infirmary, but today it felt like a sanctuary. Exhausted, he let his head sink, fingering the bandage around his smarting eyes. His face hurt. His head hurt. Everything hurt.

“Here, drink this.” 

Aramis pressed a cup into his hand, and the familiar scent of Sister Marie’s calming draught rose into his nose. Gratefully, Athos drank it up in a few large gulps.

“D’Artagnan is fetching Doctor Lemay. Until he arrives, let’s make you a little more comfortable, shall we?”

Athos nodded in surrender. The mixture of herbs and alcohol was quickly taking effect, numbing pain and fear and embarrassment to something he could deal with. It made him quietly compliant, and he let Aramis unbuckle his weapons belt, strip him of his jacket and, very carefully, peel the makeshift bandage from his eyes. But he tensed when he heard Aramis suck in a breath.

“That bad?” 

“No, it’s just…” Athos felt Aramis’ breath cool on his face when the medic inspected his injuries. “It’s very swollen, but that was to be expected. It will look a lot less dramatic once the swelling goes down. Sit back and try to relax.”

Aramis’ stool screeched across the floorboards when he got up and moved away. Athos heard him bustle about the room, pouring water, mixing medicines, gathering supplies, and he allowed himself to feel comforted by the familiar noises and smells. He’d witnessed Aramis work miracles within the walls of this room. Maybe there was one left for him.

D’Artagnan returned with Lemay surprisingly quickly. The physician was clearly out of breath when he leaned over Athos to examine him - the impetuous Gascon must have hustled him along at a merciless pace. Even before the doctor addressed Athos, he had identified the man by his clean, mildly perfumed smell and the jingling of the instruments in his medical bag.

“I’m going to be as gentle as I can, Lieutenant,” Lemay said in his schooled, caring voice. “But I’m afraid it’s going to be uncomfortable.” 

Athos nodded but felt himself breaking into a sweat.

Once more, his eyelids were forced apart. Once more, pain stabbed into his eyes and tears welled, unstoppable. Once more, he couldn’t suppress a gasp and wanted nothing but to bat at the fingers that were causing him such torment. And, once more, firm, brotherly hands held him through the procedure.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the end of the ordeal. 

Lemay ordered a treatment that found Athos squirming on his back on a table, Porthos pressing his shoulders down and Aramis’ palms firmly cupping his cheeks while an infusion of eyebright was poured into his eyes, streamed down his face and pooled at his neck, all of it, _all of it_ becoming so unbearable that he pleaded with them to stop until they did.

By the time they had him in a bed, his eyes thickly bandaged, he had to fight through a haze of exhaustion and disorientation to focus on the voices in the darkness.

“... _Euphrasia_ twice a day. Summon me at once at any sign of inflammation.” 

“We will. Thank you, doctor.”

Athos heard light footsteps retreat and a door being shut. To his right and left, leather creaked and weapons jangled on belts, and he felt the presence of a brother on either side. 

“Aramis?” he asked into the swath of stinging black.

“What is it?”

“I didn’t... catch what Lemay said,” Athos admitted, swallowing. “About my eyes. Did he say if…?” He stopped, letting the silence finish the question for him.

“He said he cannot say if there will be any lasting damage.” Aramis’ voice was gentle and accompanied by a warm hand settling on Athos’ arm. “We will have to wait until you’ve healed. For now, it’s important that we ward off infection. We’ll know more in a few days.”

Porthos grunted. “You’ll be fine. I know you will.”

D’Artagnan, who, judging by the nervous pacing, had to be on his left, didn’t say anything, but Athos could physically feel the anxiety emanating from the Gascon.

“For now,” Aramis continued, “try to get some rest. Porthos and d’Artagnan have to report for duty, but I’ll be here.” The hand remained on his arm, an anchor in the dark. “Just rest.”

***

Athos had survived a lot of injuries in his life, but few of them had been as debilitating as this one. Although Aramis had assured him that all remaining glass had been washed out of his eyes, he could have sworn he was wrong: the constant scraping sensation drove him crazy and rendered sleep impossible. Rinsing them with Lemay’s prescribed infusion of eyebright- as harrowing as the procedure itself was - brought a few minutes of treacherous relief until the sandy feeling returned with a vengeance. And distraction was difficult. The darkness encasing Athos highlighted every sensation and made him feel helpless and claustrophobic. 

To make matters worse, the day after their return, his eyes had swollen entirely shut and started to weep sickly fluid. An urgently summoned Lemay had diagnosed infection. He’d added a solution of milk, honey and cooked onion to Athos’ treatment that Aramis applied with determination and diligence, accompanied by upbeat remarks. Porthos and d’Artagnan did their best to cheer him up with banter and reports from their day at the garrison, but their kind voices and helping hands did little to dispel Athos’ mounting fear and frustration. 

The nights were the worst. Although one of them - usually Aramis - slept on a cot right next to him in case he needed assistance, the silence that befell the garrison became oppressive. Once Aramis’ deep, even breaths announced that he’d fallen asleep, the pitch black behind Athos’ eyelids became an abyss, and he tumbled into it, blind. 

_Blind._

What if the infection took his eyesight? And even if not - what if he was left with his vision compromised? Whenever Armis cleaned and re-bandaged his eyes, everything still looked blurry, Aramis a mere blotch in front of him. What if things didn’t improve? He _needed_ keen eyesight to remain a musketeer. If he could no longer see well enough to shoot, to fight, to read, he would have to surrender his commission. What would become of him then? 

While he had no doubt that his brothers would stick by him, even take care of him, the thought was unbearable. Useless, helpless, dependent - it would be the opposite of who he was and not a life worth living. Not for him. 

“Athos?”

A hand found him in the darkness. 

“What’s wrong, Athos? Can’t sleep?” Aramis’ palm felt rough as he touched Athos in his by now familiar sequence - forehead, neck, wrist - checking for fever or pain. 

“How did you know I was awake?” Athos asked back. He’d been perfectly still.

“I could hear you thinking.”

“That is ridiculous.” Athos huffed, no longer bothering to turn his head in his friend’s direction. He’d given up on that useless habit two days ago.

“Not when your thoughts are this _loud_ ,” Aramis said, and Athos could hear the medic’s soft smirk in his voice. 

“If that is the case,” Athos replied, “I will make an effort to think _quieter_ thoughts. I wouldn’t want to disrupt your beauty sleep any further.”

Aramis chuckled, and his cot squeaked as he settled back down. 

“That is very gracious of you.”

More squeaking ensued and the flutter of a blanket being rearranged as Aramis made himself comfortable a mere arm’s length from Athos. Silence descended once more, and Athos waited for Aramis’ breaths to even out and confirm that he’d gone back to sleep. 

Instead, softly, the marksman’s voice penetrated the darkness again.

“You’re allowed to be afraid, you know?”

Athos’ heart skipped a beat. His throat suddenly tightened. 

_Damn you, Aramis._

He was their best marksman for a reason, always hitting the bull’s eye. 

Athos swallowed but couldn’t answer. He felt tears rise and, for the first time, he was glad about the bandage covering his eyes. 

“You’re not alone, brother,” Aramis added, and the certainty in his voice almost broke Athos. “And whatever happens, you never will be.”

Fighting for control, Athos didn’t move, didn’t say anything for a few dozen more aching heartbeats. He just lay there, breathing raggedly and infinitely grateful that Aramis had the presence of mind not to touch him now. Eventually, he released a shaky breath and nodded. 

“I know.” 

_Dear god_ , he sounded like glass.

“Now get some sleep,” Aramis said, putting sternness behind his words. ”I’ll be here if there’s anything you need.”

And with that pledge, they both fell silent again, and, after a while, even Athos went to sleep.

***

There wasn’t a grand moment of truth. Not a momentous unwrapping of his eyes to find his sight suddenly and miraculously restored. Like any severe injury, this one took its time to heal, in stages, and at every stage there was no telling if further improvement would show itself. They were all relieved when the infection faded. The swelling went down, the leakage stopped, the stinging lessened. Every time Aramis changed his bandages, his vision improved just a little. Aramis went from a shapeless blur to a silhouette, to a body and a face whose details slowly, slowly swam a bit more into focus. The light didn’t hurt as much. Blinking was no longer agony. Finally, the bandages stayed off, and Athos moved back into his own quarters, one hand still on a brother’s shoulder to guide him through a blotchy, unreliable world, but grateful for his regained freedom.

Every day, he returned to the infirmary for treatment. Every day, Aramis played down the nervousness in his ever-same question: “Any improvement?” And every day, Athos looked around the room, seeing sharper edges, more nuances and, looking back at Aramis, familiar details reappeared: the scars and the stubble, the fine lines around his eyes and the well-tended tips of his moustache. 

“Yes,” Athos said, and nodded while Aramis’ trepidation merged into joy.

There were milestones that he took. Losing the bandages was the first. Recognizing friends when someone called his name and he turned around, seeing them approach, was another. No longer _feeling_ for the holes in his weapons belt, but actually _seeing_ what he was doing as he dressed, tied strings, closed clasps and buckles was a step as little and as big as the memorable day when, hands trembling, he opened a book and the blurry scrawl morphed back into letters that he could _read_.

The damage did not heal completely in the end. When he looked at the bright sky, he saw tiny specks swimming across his vision that hadn’t been there before - scars, Aramis explained - but he got used to them, and they didn’t bother him in his daily life. Reading was more difficult by candlelight now, and Aramis predicted he’d need spectacles at some point in the future, but his long-distance vision had returned as sharp as ever.

Treville put it to a test. He had to. When rumours spread - fueled by the Red Guard - that one of the finest soldiers in the regiment was no longer fit for duty, the captain had set up a series of challenges for Athos to prove them wrong. Athos mastered an obstacle course on horseback without difficulty, demonstrated his swordsmanship in a duel that was over in a few dizzying strikes and - the trickiest test of them all - had to shoot at and hit targets from an increasing distance. While his marksmanship had never been as perfect as Aramis’, it was good enough: His friends whooped as another tin cup became airborne when the ball fired from Athos’ pistol sent it flying.

Afterwards, his fellow musketeers welcomed him back with friendly slaps to his pauldron and words of camaraderie, and Treville stepped in front of Athos with a proud smile to quickly pull him in for an embrace.

When he stayed behind to clean up with the other three, collecting bullet-riddled targets, sweeping up hay that had been strewn about and polishing weapons, Athos let his gaze roam over the garrison grounds, taking in every detail, every pebble and chip of wood, every glint of steel and dust moat floating in the slanting light of the evening sun. Then, he looked at his brothers. He saw d’Artagnan laugh and throw a handful of straw at Porthos, accompanied by some teasing joke. Porthos shook himself, grunting, and cast the young Gascon a sinister scowl before giving him a shove that was never meant seriously. Sitting at the table, an arquebus in his lap, fingers blackened by gun oil, Aramis rolled his eyes at the two but did not suppress a grin. 

Athos saw grown men acting like boys, shedding the worry and seriousness of the last few weeks like dead weight. He saw their hands that had guided him, helped him dress, helped him orientate himself in a suddenly blackened world, now slapping each other across the back, cracking silly jokes. He saw their eyes that had been _his_ eyes when he couldn’t see, now shining with joy, three different shades of brown, three different souls looking out of them at the world, Aramis’ gentle ones now settling on him.

“Is everything all right, Athos?”

Seeing worry return to his friend’s gaze, Athos nodded quickly and decided that it was his turn to smile. 

“Yes,” he said, and sat down next to Aramis to clean his own pistol. “Yes. Everything is all right indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said it was messy, didn't I? Moving on... Strike is next.


	26. 27. OK, Who Had Natural Disasters On Their 2020 Bingo Card? (Cormoran Strike)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a first for Sergeant Strike, and we’re not only talking about the weather.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: #27 extreme weather
> 
> This one’s a bit longer, but I think it reads fast.

The sandstorm hit them like all things seemed to hit in this war-ravaged, sun-baked desert: out of nowhere. One minute, they’d been struggling up a steep slope, Strike getting jostled about in the Jeep’s backseat. The next, they’d been engulfed by a cloud of sand, barely managing to roll up the windows in time. The landscape around them vanished as the storm howled over them, rocking their vehicle with gale force. They had no option but to sit it out. Listening to the sand pelting the windows, they held on to their seats, as if the Jeep was a boat being tossed about on an angry sea. 

Strike’s knuckles went white, one hand braced against the backrest in front of him, the other clutching the strap of his automatic rifle. With the air conditioning shut off, the inside of the vehicle became hot and stuffy very quickly, and under the heavy flak vest his t-shirt stuck to his skin. Sweat trickled down the sides of his face, itching in his late-afternoon-stubble. A vicious gust shook the Jeep, and Strike’s stomach lurched when the car seemed to lift off for a second and dropped down again. 

“How long is this gonna go on?” he yelled in Farsi, addressing their driver through the hellish noise.

Behind the wheel, thin brown hands resting in his lap, Nael shrugged. 

“As long as it takes,” he replied with practiced fatalism.

“These bloody storms can last for hours,” McLoud commented from the passenger seat. “Or be over in a few minutes. Impossible to tell.”

The compact, heavily muscled Scotsman looked more annoyed than worried but cursed loudly when another gust made the windows rattle. Strike knew that the red-haired Special Forces captain was on his second tour in the Middle East and he was grateful to have such an experienced soldier accompanying him on this trip to a small Army camp higher up in the mountains. A violent incident that looked suspiciously like homophobia in the reports needed investigating, and Strike was looking forward to pushing for a jail sentence on top of a dishonorable discharge once he’d identified the culprits - if they ever arrived at the camp, that was.

But the storm eventually passed, quicker than feared, and Strike, McLoud and Nael clambered out of the Jeep. They had to wriggle through the windows - the vehicle was buried in sand up to its headlights, and the doors wouldn’t open. 

“Unbelievable,” Strike murmured, catching a shovel that McLoud tossed him from the top of the car. 

And then they dug. 

It didn’t take long for Strike to be slick with sweat and coated in a fine layer of sand. He felt parched even though taking frequent sips from his water flask. He didn’t mind the hard work - his Army training had perfected his natural boxer’s physique, and he was at the peak of his physical fitness - but the midday heat was relentless, the sky a painful blue that made him squint even behind his Aviators. He’d shucked his flak vest inside the car - he never would’ve fit through the window wearing it - and had divested himself of all extra weight in favor of mobility. Stripped to his t-shirt and fatigues, he still felt impossibly hot. The olive cotton was soaked through, and he felt tempted to take his shirt off. After weeks of exposure to the Afghan sun, his English skin had stooped to a reasonable tan, but, from painful experience, he knew better than to push it.

Digging next to him, the Scotsman stopped to wipe his dripping brow.

“Bloody fuckin’ heat,” he cursed, cheeks almost as red as his hair.

“Tell me about it,” Strike huffed back.

On the other side of the Jeep, Nael’s turban bobbed up and down behind the hood. The man was half Strike’s size, and yet he hadn’t slowed down and was working in a steady, efficient rhythm. 

Strike stood to stretch. Pressing a hand into his back, he groaned and scanned their surroundings. They’d been halfway up a set of hills, the ridge’s sand-blasted tips glinting in the sun. There was no sign of life anywhere in sight - no dwellings, not even fences, only a beige, rolling landscape strewn with rocks and sprouting the occasional patch of skeletal shrubbery. The Army camp was another hour or two out, and, not for the first time, Strike had the eerie feeling of being stranded on a foreign, uninhabited planet.

Strike bent back down and rammed the shovel back into the sand with a grunt. The left back tire was almost free, and the prospect of making it out of this furnace spurred him on. When he changed position to focus on the rear of the car (letting it roll out of its trap backwards was their agreed-upon plan), he felt a prickle at the back of his neck. It wasn’t sweat. It was the primeval part of his brain telling him that something was wrong.

Strike turned around, neurons firing alarm.

He heard a bullet whizz toward him, a split second before it ripped into his side. The pain was so sharp, it stole his breath, and, dropping the shovel, he stumbled against the back of the car. At the front, McLoud grunted in surprise and vanished from view. Nael shrieked.

Combat training kicked in, and Strike lurched behind the Jeep to take cover. His hand reached for the gun tucked into a holster at the small of his back. He yanked it out, ignoring the stinging wetness above his hip, and released the safety catch. Nael, squatting in the sand two steps away from him, stared at him with big eyes. 

Another bullet dug into the Jeep’s exposed side with a metallic _clang_. Again, Strike hadn’t heard the shot. It had to be a sniper’s rifle, muffled to hide the shooter’s position.

“McLoud!” Strike hollered. “McLoud, you alright?!”

Strike’s heart beat in his throat. He prayed the Scot wasn’t dead. 

“McLoud!!”

“ _Shit_ , Strike!” A ginger crew cut and then the rest of the Special Forces man appeared as he scrambled behind the car, low to the ground and trying to blend in with his surroundings. “Stop yelling!”

Strike gasped in relief. Sparks flew and he flinched at another projectile glancing off the Jeep.

McLoud had risen and, gun in hand, was trying to spot the shooter. Judging by the shots’ trajectory, they had to be situated on the ridge above them. Strike startled when he saw blood soaking through the soldier’s trouser leg. 

“You’re bleeding,” he stammered. 

Ducking as another shot whizzed past them, the Scot cast a perfunctory glance at his thigh, then at Strike.

“Yeah?” he said, clucking his tongue. “Seems I’m not the only one.”

Strike followed the man’s gaze to his own bloody side. His t-shirt stuck to the wound, the dark stain around it impressively wide. Gingerly, he pulled his shirt up to reveal a long and deep furrow just above his left hip that was leaking sluggishly. Strike looked at it with strange detachment. As a boxer, he was used to pushing through the shock and pain of an injury, but a gunshot wound was definitely a new experience.

“Your first injury on the job?” McLoud asked.

Strike nodded, feeling a little faint.

“Flesh wound,” the Scot informed him. “You’ll live. Just don’t go into shock for a bit, alright, mate? I’ll need your help to get us out of this lil’ foofaraw.”

As if on cue, a hail of bullets - loud shots this time, from an automatic weapon - slammed into the front of the car. Glass splintered and rained into the sand. It wasn’t a good sign. Whoever was shooting at them was coming closer.

 _“Bastards!”_

The captain ripped his sweaty bandana from his neck and tied it around his thigh with an angry growl. Then he peeked through the broken windows to scan the ridge. Strike, doing likewise, saw at least three men sneaking down their side of the hill, using ditches and rock formations for cover.

“What are we gonna do?” Nael, hands protectively clutching his head, stared at the two soldiers in fear. He was a civilian, not a soldier, and clearly not built for the stress of an ambush. 

“We’re gonna give these fuckers a run for their money” McLoud spat. “But we need more firepower. Strike!” He turned to him. “Where’s your rifle and ammo? On the backseat?”

Strike nodded, his pulse thrumming in his ears.

“Mine’s up front. Shit!” Angrily, McLoud slammed one fist into the sand. They shouldn’t have left their weapons in the Jeep, but there was no time for self-blame now. “Think you can get yours if I cover you?”

Swallowing, Cormoran tried to push through his fear and the pain in his side and think. All three of them were huddled behind the Jeep’s rear, the hostiles approaching them from the front. If he made it to the back door and opened it quickly, the metal plating would shield him from bullets. He pictured his rifle and its position on the seat, the flak vest and spare ammunition beside it, and his radio set. The latter, he knew to be useless - they had no reception in this isolated part of the desert. They’d have to fend for themselves. 

“Strike!”

Cormoran blinked - and made a decision. He nodded.

“Right then.” McLoud locked eyes with him, face a determined grimace. “On three.”

He took position, ready to pop around the rear. Strike grabbed his own gun tighter, surprised that his hand wasn’t shaking.

“One. Two.... _Three!”_

The instant McLoud started to lay cover fire, Cormoran flattened himself around the side of the Jeep. The Scot’s gun belched round after round uphill, casings plinking off the Jeep’s side. In answer, a salvo of wild shots kicked up the sand around Strike’s boots. He slid forward, yanked the car’s rear door open and ducked behind it. Then he threw himself across the back seat to grab what he’d come for. A trio of bullets punched into the backrest as he pulled himself back out, rifle, belt and vest gathered in his arms, and he tried not to drop his gun when he stumbled back behind the car. 

Before he dove for cover, he’d seen five men advance, yelling in Arabic. They would be upon them in a matter of seconds.

McLoud snatched the rifle out of Strike’s grasp and, with a battle cry, cocked and emptied it in direction of the hostiles. Cormoran almost fell, and he caught himself on their cowering driver, Nael, curled up protectively behind the bumper. 

“Strike! Three o’clock! Engage!”

Cormoran’s brain automatically reacted to the military command. He cradled his gun in a secure two-handed grip and stuck it around the other side of the Jeep. Sure enough, a fierce-looking man in mismatched camouflage, brandishing a rifle, was heading straight for him. Strike flinched as a bullet zinged past his ear, but he steadied himself, aimed and pulled the trigger of his gun. _One - two._ Double-tapped, the man dropped with a grunt. 

From McLoud’s side, he heard the _ratatat_ of an automatic weapon and yelps of pain, but he had no time to check who was hit. Another attacker had sprung up from behind the Jeep’s hood. He was too close for Strike to bring up his gun in time. The man hurtled himself at Strike with a scream - and with a knife. On reflex, Cormoran blocked the man’s forearm and held on to his wrist. Stepping back to bring him off-balance, he pulled him to the ground, knife first. A deft twist of the arm, a nasty crunch, and his attacker was writhing on the ground with a dislocated shoulder.

His wounded side on fire, Strike whirled around to see how Nael and McLoud were faring. The Afghan driver was still crouched in his fetal position but looked unhurt. McLoud, however, was engaged in a wrestling match with a dark man equaling his size and in danger of losing. His injured leg was threatening to give out underneath him, and he was breathing hard in a headlock. Seeing no further hostiles coming, Strike took two steps and drove his right fist into the attacker’s kidney. When the man sagged with an _oof!_ , releasing McLoud’s neck, Strike plucked him off the Scotsman’s back and spun him around. The rest was deeply ingrained choreography: One blow to the dark man’s stomach, followed with an uppercut, and the hostile fell in a heap.

Adrenaline still firing, Strike looked around and braced himself for more. _Where was his gun?_ He found it in the sand and picked it up to train it in a wide arc, searching for a target. 

“Nice.” On the ground, McLoud coughed and pulled himself to a sitting position. “But I think you can stand down, sergeant. We got’em all.”

For a prolonged moment, Strike was unable to let his weapon sink. It seemed glued to his hand as his eyes skipped over the Jeep, the sandy slope and the bodies now littering it. Five men were strewn around them, either dead or too injured to fight. Chest heaving, Cormoran had to force his arms to relax and tore his gaze away from the bodies, to McLoud.

“Hell of a punch you got there, Strike,” the Scot said, grinning crookedly through a film of dirt and sweat. “Ever thought of a career in boxing?”

Strike would’ve laughed, but he didn’t have the energy left. Adrenaline suddenly waning, he pressed a hand to his stinging side and sank down between the captain and their catatonic driver.

“Right.” McLoud nodded, clutching his own wound. “Let’s take a moment to breathe. And then let’s uncurl our shell-shocked friend here, slap a band-aid on and get this show back on the road, shall we?”

Sitting now, his whole body twitching, Strike had enough air to chuckle at the absurdity of it all. He squinted at the bright-blue sky, at the bullet riddled jeep, then at McLoud.

“Yeah,” he slurred. “But you’re driving.”

XXX

The Army doctor who patched Strike up a few hours later couldn’t be much older than him, but his deft, sure hands spoke of experience. He observed Strike closely while he worked.

“Feel that?”

He poked at Strike’s injury, but it might as well have been someone else’s. The local anesthetic had done its job, and Cormoran, propped on his side, eyed the cleaned wound dispassionately. In the last few hours, exchanging saturated gauze pads several times as they rocked back to base camp, he’d become used to the sight, and to the pain.

“No. I don’t feel anything.”

“Good. Now keep still and think of something pleasant.”

As the doctor bent over him and began to sew his wound shut, Strike tried to stop the film that was playing back over and over in his memory: The sandstorm; the ambush; the trek back to camp. Thank God they’d almost dug the Jeep out when the attack happened. Without Nael, revived by gentle words and a slug from McLoud’s secret hip-flask (“Only for emergencies, Strike, dinna rat me out!”), they never would’ve managed to finish their shoveling and get moving. As useless as Nael was in a fight - he was a magnificent driver and wriggled the Jeep free, working the clutch and the gearshift like a magician.

Reluctantly, they’d left the two wounded hostiles behind; there wasn’t enough room in the Jeep for a safe transport. They’d left them with bandages and water, and neither man was fatally wounded. Eventually, they would make it back to whatever transport they’d used. As to the bodies… Strike hoped they’d take care of them as well before the desert did. 

He shuddered. 

_I’ve killed someone._

It hadn’t sunken in yet. But it would.

“You alright, soldier?”

The doc had stopped sewing and was eyeing him with concern.

“Yeah.” Cormoran nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

The surgeon gave him a dubious look that Strike answered with a defiant stare. 

“I’m fine, doc. Just- how long will I be out of commission?”

He was thinking of the case now on hold because of today’s incident.

Turning back to his stitching, the young doctor addressed his words to Strike’s hip. 

“Not long,” he said. “I’d like to keep you here overnight, load you with antibiotics and top up your fluids.” He flicked his head at the IV Strike had been hooked up to. “Normally, I’d suggest another three days of bedrest, but none of you hard-arses ever listen to me anyway, so I’ll just hope you’ll take it easy for a while and have a medic remove those stitches in ten days - a _medic_ , not one of your pals with their pocket knife.” He threw Strike a warning look.

Cormoran nodded obediently. 

“Duly noted.” 

“Good man.”

The young surgeon cut the last thread just as McLoud hobbled into view behind him. The Scot was on crutches, a thick bandage peeking out from under his cut-off trouser leg. He pulled up beside Strike’s cot and peared at the row of black stitches in his side.

“How many, doc?”

“Eight,” the surgeon replied automatically, but his brow furrowed in disapproval when saw who was talking. 

“And it’s not a contest!” He slapped a bandage over Strike’s wound, then he got up from his stool and glowered at the Scotsman. “ _What_ are you doing out of bed, Captain? And where is your IV?”

Pulling the stool towards him, McLoud dropped onto it. He waved a dismissive hand at the opposite end of the room and otherwise ignored the doctor’s questions. 

The surgeon sighed in defeat. “Suit yourself.” He gave up and walked away.

McLoud rolled his eyes and scratched his red stubble, carving a trail into the dirt on his face. Then he stretched his injured leg out with a sigh of his own and looked at Strike.

“How you doin’, Strike?”

Cormoran shifted on his cot, unable to find a comfortable position.

“Fine. You?”

“Peachy.”

They both acknowledged each other’s bravery with a manly nod.

“You saved our arses back there,” the captain continued. “Not bad for an SIB guy.”

Taken aback, Cormoran shook his head. 

“Nonsense! I nearly froze. You took charge. And you took out half of them. If it hadn’t been for you, we’d all be lying dead in that sandpit now.”

 _“Bullshit!”_ The Scot said loudly. “You saved my fuckin’ life back there, and I owe you for that.”

He offered his hand. “Thanks, Strike.”

Awkwardly, Cormoran took his hand and shook it. He felt a strange mixture of embarrassment and pride.

“Got something for you,” McLoud added and reached for his back pocket. When he brought his hand around, he was holding the hip flask he’d offered Nael. By now, Strike knew that it held a surprisingly fine Scottish whisky. McLoud tucked it underneath Strike’s pillow, out of sight.

Cormoran tried to reach for the flask and give it back. 

“No, Captain, really, I don’t-”

“You’ll want it, believe me,” McLoud cut him off. His blue eyes went suddenly serious. “Tonight, when it’s quiet and you can’t sleep, that face will come to haunt you. He was your fist kill, am I right?”

Cormoran’s stomach suddenly dropped. Until now, he’d been too distracted to truly think about what had happened. About what he had done. About what he’d had to do. It had seemed so easy. _Disturbingly_ easy. 

“Yeah,” he admitted quietly.

“Thought so.”

McLoud pointed at the hidden flask.

“This’ll help.”

“Thanks.”

The two soldiers locked eyes for a moment, and although Cormoran barely knew the other man, he felt a strange bond with him. They’d fought together. They’d killed together. They’d had each other’s backs. _Brothers in arms._ Cormoran had always thought the term a bit melodramatic, but now he knew where it sprang from.

“Watch your six, Strike.” 

Laboriously, McLoud struggled back to his one good foot and clamped the crutches back under his armpits. 

“You too, Captain.”

With nothing left to say, the Scotsman hobbled back to the other side of the medical tent.

Soon, night fell across the camp. Though never completely quiet, noises died down, and the bustle of patients and doctors coming and going trickled off until only a core shift was left for the night. A nurse stopped by to hang a new IV, check his blood pressure and cover Strike with a blanket. When she left, she pulled up a curtain between him and the next, unoccupied bed to give him more privacy. 

“Shout if you need anything,” she said with a quick smile and disappeared.

Strike, alone now, his wound stinging, stared into the descending darkness and waited for sleep - or whatever else - to find him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll admit it: the “extreme weather” prompt was just a poor excuse for me to write Sergeant Strike handling a gun and wearing aviators.


	27. 28 Such Wow. Many Normal. Very Oops.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected guest causes problems on _La Sirena._ Ouch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting there. Three more prompts to go. Is anyone still bearing with me? *shouts into the void*
> 
> Prompt: #28 accidents

“It’s _gotta_ be here. It was listed in the transporter log.”

“Yeah, well, it’s missing from the cargo index now.” Raffi grimaced. “Are you absolutely sure it ever made it on board?”

Expression stormy, Rios’ head appeared behind a large, octagonal cargo container.

“Yes. I _am._ I personally supervised the transport. I take these things seriously, you know.” 

Folding both arms across her digital clipboard, Raffi pulled an uneasy face.

“The GHF will not like this.”

Rios raked a hand through his hair. 

“No, they won’t.”

“Even though it’s technically just a molten piece of junk.” 

Cris threw her a reprimanding look. “Raffi…”

The “piece of junk” she was referring to was, in reality, a revered item of an extinct species on a recently discovered planet in the Galvarion sector. For several months, archeologists had dug for and pored over the traces the species had left behind, testament to a rich culture that included a complex religious belief system. The Galaxy Heritage Foundation had hired Cris to transport an assortment of religious items to Earth for further studies and a future exhibition. Some of them were small - pendants, figurines and shimmering objects made of a metallic compound that had yet to be named - while others were statues or chunks of the same mysterious material wielded together in shapes that meant nothing to the human eye but the world to a life form that had apparently been wiped out by some sort of natural disaster. 

Raffi shrugged again and tapped her clipboard. 

“Are you sure this one’s linked properly to your scanner?”

She gestured at the device Rios was now pointing at the label on the next container. The force field holding their precious and heavy cargo in place hummed in protest as Cris reached through it to double-check the label, but, programmed to let organic entities pass, it gave no real resistance. 

“Should be,” he replied as the scanner chirped and - once more - glowed red to confirm that this _wasn’t_ the pod they were looking for. “Ean synced them, and he doesn’t make mistakes. Not of that sort, anyway.”

“But he said it’s been missing from the cargo index since, what, last night?” 

“Yeah.” Cris’ upper half popped up behind a massive rectangular container, and he placed his arms on top of it, frowning at the scanner read-out. “And it cannot have simply disappeared. Or can it?” His eyebrows rose. “I mean, we barely know anything about this new metal and its capabilities. What if it’s-”

“...vanished into thin air?” Raffi finished his thought. “But… with the container? And why would it? After all, the species that-”

All of a sudden, the force field crackled and flickered. Then, with a deep rumble, the large container Rios had been inspecting shot forward. It slammed into him, pinning him to the crates behind him. He cried out in pain and shock as he felt tissue being crushed and bones break. His entire lower body half erupted into agony. 

“Fuck! _Cris!”_

He could hear Raffi shout, but his vision was flecked with black spots, and her voice seemed to come from a distance. 

“Cris! Oh, fuck - hang on!”

She was close to him now; he could hear her furious grunts as she tried to wedge herself between the containers that were crushing him. 

_His pelvis. His legs. His feet. Oh God._

Rios tried to breathe through the sharp pain of multiple fractures and failed. His chest, although unrestricted, felt too tight, as if the force of his injuries was pushing upwards, through his stomach and against his diaphragm.

“Shit! Cris!”

He blinked at his friend through a greying veil of semi-consciousness. She was pushing against the container with both hands, her face a desperate grimace, but it wouldn’t budge.

“HELP!” Raffi shouted through the cargo deck. “HELP US!”

Foggily, Cris wondered who was supposed to come. Agnes was on Coppelius with Soji, Picard was taking care of business on his vineyard on Earth, and Elnor had accompanied him. There was no one on board except for Raffi and-

“What is the nat- … _Captain!”_

The EMH dropped his poncy attitude as soon as he had fully materialized and spotted Rios.

“Trauma med kit!” He barked at _Sirena’s_ computer, and the requested case shivered into existence. 

“He’s stuck!” Raffi yelled. “The force field failed, and the _fucking_ container-“

“Thank you, Miss Musiker, I can see that” the EMH responded, cutting her off and pulling up bioscans on a holo projector. 

Cris moaned. 

He wondered why he was still conscious. Pain was ricocheting through his shattered legs, and wetness was streaking down the inside of his pants. Blood or - _dios mío_ \- something else? The pressure on his bladder and hip bones was insane, and when he moved his torso, he felt a sickening instability below his belly button. His pelvis was probably in pieces.

“Emil…,” he croaked helplessly.

“Stay calm, Captain. Breathe.” 

Deftly, the EMH shoved a vial from the med kit into a hypospray injector and pressed it against Rios’ neck. 

“This should help with the pain.”

It did. _Thank God_ it did. Rios tipped his head back and closed his eyes as blessed numbness flooded his body. To his surprise, Raffi was kneeling behind him. She must have climbed on top of the crate. 

“I’m here, babe,” she said reassuringly, her hair tingling his face as she supported his head and shoulders. 

Another hypospray released its charge into his system.

“I’m stabilizing your blood pressure,” Emil explained. He dropped the injector back into the case, grabbed a new item and extended his arm to clip something under Rios’ nose. Oxygen hissed into his nostrils.

“O2 replicator,” the hologram said calmly. “Take deep breaths.”

Rios complied. He felt lightheaded, and his heart was beating much too fast in his chest, but he could breathe easier, and whatever the hologram had given him was blissfully dropping a shield between him and the panic and pain. 

“We need to get him out of there, Miss Musiker, and quickly! I don’t know how long I can keep him stable.“

The urgency in the EMH’s voice slid off Rios’ pharmaceutical veneer. 

“I know. But _how?”_ Raffi sounded distraught.

“Activate EEH and ETH!” 

At Emil’s snappy command, two more holos shimmered into the cargo bay. Their eyes flickered silver as they synchronized their databases with that of the EMH, updating them on the situation at hand in a second. 

The EEH stepped forward, grim-faced under his woolen hat. 

“Transporter,” the Engineer barked at the ship’s computer. “Reroute signal to cargo bay! Lock on container number ten-six-thirty-two! Lift on my command!”

Through his opiate haze, Rios heard the transporter trill, followed by a harsh double beep.

“ _No funciona_ ,” the ETH grumbled. Expression dark as night, he strode to a nearby computer console to hit a sequence of keys. Rios had never seen the tactical hologram in a worse mood. 

“The container is blocking the transporter signal,” Emmet explained in his heavily accented English - for Raffi’s benefit, Rios realized after a moment of confusion. “Or whatever is inside the container.”

“How odd,” the EMH wondered. He took his eyes from Rios for a second to frown at the tricorder in his hand. “It’s giving off readings. Organic readings.” 

“You… you mean it’s- what? _Alive_?” Raffi’s tone was incredulous.

Rios gave a small chuckle. Something told him that nothing about this situation was funny, but he couldn’t help it. He also couldn’t keep his head from lolling and felt Raffi’s hand sliding under his chin.

“Cris! Stay with me, babe! Emil!”

Something warbled, and he felt Emil’s hands on him. 

“He’s losing too much blood.”

The EMH was probably right. Cris had heard a steady _drip - drip - drip_ underneath him and imagined his own blood dripping through the grated metal paneling of the cargo bay into the deck below.

 _The EHH would throw a hissy fit when he saw the stains_.

Rios huffed and dispassionately looked at his lower arm. The medical hologram was clasping something around his wrist, and then a small screen on the device flashed ‘AB+’ and he felt a prickling sensation in his veins.

“This will buy us some time, but we need to hurry,” Emil said in his clipped tone. 

“If this _thing_ is… alive,” Raffi desperately picked up where they’d left off, “maybe we can… I don’t know, _ask_ it to move?” 

Emil shook his head in doubt. “I said it’s organic, not that it’s sentient.” He looked at the tricorder again. “There’s no indication that it can _think_. No indication of a brain.”

“ _Oye_ , it was smart enough to break through the force field and attack our _capitán!”_

Emmet glowered at the container and Rios, feeling increasingly tired, only now realized that his tactical officer was holding a phaser in one hand.

As if on cue, the container began to shudder and emitted a sequence of deep-pitched sounds.

Rios gasped as the vibrations aggravated his injuries. He felt broken bones shift, and something snapped in his left knee. He couldn’t suppress a yelp of pain.

“What’s happening?!” Raffi cried out. She was bracing him from behind, and her hands seemed to be the one thing anchoring him to sanity.

“For fuck’s sake!” She screamed. “Make it stop!”

None of them could. While the EMH injected Cris with more drugs, the other holograms were stemming their non-existent weight against the container. Emmet even kicked against it, spitting curses in Spanish. Faintly, Rios hoped the thing would either move back or end what it had started, but, after an endless stretch of agony, the vibrations and the noise stopped abruptly, and he was still pinned and alive.

“Rios, you still with me?” 

Raffi was holding him; he could feel her breath against his cheek and hear the fear in her voice. Cris breathed a broken sob. He was unable to do more. Emil’s meds were taking the edge off, but pain was still rocketing through him, and he could feel his body shutting down. Unconsciousness licked at him like an incoming tide, and he fought it with waning strength. 

The EMH was all over him, adjusting settings and ordering him to keep his eyes open. Rios thought he discovered a hint of uncertainty in the hologram’s behaviour.

_He wasn’t dying, was he?_

_“Aléjate!”_ Losing patience, the Tactical Hologram waved his tattoed hands and lifted the phaser. He pointed it at the container. “Step away! I’m gonna get this thing to move!”

It was Ean who raised his hands and protectively stepped in front of the now-quiet cargo pod.

“No! Don’t! We dinnae ken if- … It could _kill_ the capt’n if you attack it!”

Sluggishly, Rios thought that he’d die anyway if they didn’t hurry, but he kept that thought to himself and focused on staying awake.

“Ean’s right,” Raffi said behind him. “Look, it’s obviously trying to communicate. We should find out what it wants! We need somebody to-” She stopped, and Rios could literally hear her having an epiphany.

“Activate EHH!”

Rios was too exhausted to groan.

When the Emergency Hospitality Hologram materialised, his smarmy expression froze on his perfectly groomed face as soon as he caught sight of Rios.

Lucidity fading, Rios listened as the others explained to the newly arrived look-alike what was going on and what they needed from him. Cris caught only fragments. Somewhere deep in his foggy brain, their idea made sense: The EHH’s programming designated him to - theoretically - make guests on _La Sirena_ feel welcome and comfortable; the hologram was also designed to analyze and learn foreign languages or non-verbal means of communication in an instant. If anyone could negotiate a peaceful surrender of their aggressive “passenger”, it was - to Rios’ semi-conscious amazement - the Hospitality Hologram.

Aware that he must have lost several seconds, he saw the EHH’s manicured hands splayed on the container’s top, the hologram’s eyes _(was he wearing eyeliner?)_ glistening silver as his linguistic software cycled through communication protocols. The container was humming almost imperceptibly.

“Anything?” Raffi asked, out of patience. She had one arm around Rios now, her other hand holding his forehead. Cris felt ridiculously boneless in her careful grip. He blinked darkness away.

The EHH’s eyes returned to their normal brown.

“Our guest is using a semi-telepathic form of communication,” Steward reported formally. “It’s not easy to understand, but as far as I can tell, this life form lives in symbiosis with the metallic element many of these artefacts are made from. It’s embedded in the material. They are unhappy about having been removed from their home against their will. According to this specimen, their initial and peaceful attempts at telegraphing their wish to remain on their planet were ignored.”

“So they chose to become violent in our cargo bay. Great.” Raffi sounded caustic. “What do they want?”

“The promise to be reinstalled to their home planet and to be left in peace.”

“And then they’ll let Rios go?”

Cris didn’t register the reply to Raffi’s question. The room had begun to spin around him, and he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. From very far away, he heard voices, and he was almost certain the EMH pinched him. A burst of oxygen hissed into his nose and down his throat. Then, that deep rumble from the beginning returned. Voices got louder. And, suddenly, the pressure against his lower body disappeared and gave way to the dizzying sensation of a downward drop. 

Cris collapsed with the frightening last thought that he - that _everything_ \- was falling apart.

***

Raffi had never seen the Medical Hologram wear scrubs before, and she swallowed at the flecks of dried blood trailing across the grey fabric. 

_Cris’ blood._

In this day and age, open surgery was rare. That Emil had resorted to such drastic measures spoke to the severity of Cris’ injuries.

“How is he?”

Raffi stood up from the table they all sat crowded around in the mess hall - Steward, Emmet, Ean and Enoch who’d joined the vigil, summoned by the EMH to cheer up the distraught group with his sunny disposition. Well, to cheer _her_ up, Raffi corrected herself. Although the holograms looked concerned, she knew they weren’t cycling through the same storm of human emotions that she was. 

“I’ve managed to stop the bleeding in his pelvis and stabilized his fractures,” the EMH said matter-of-factly. “But Captain Rios will need extensive reconstructive surgery, and although I have the theoretical knowledge as well as the practical skills, we’re not properly equipped for the necessary procedures.”

Raffi’s heart sank.

“However,” Emil continued, “I’ve made contact with Star Base Twelve on Copernicus. We will be reaching them in eighteen hours, and they have the required facilities and have been updated on the Captain’s case. He’ll need a knee replacement, and most of his toes will be made of titanium hereafter, I’m afraid, but it’ll only be noticeable on a body scanner.”

“So he will be okay?” Raffi’s heart beat in her throat.

“There’s a 98.7 chance he’ll make a full recovery.” 

Raffi couldn’t help herself. With a tearful grin, she threw her arms around the EMH and squeezed hard. Weirdly, he smelled like a freshly showered version of Cris. 

“Thank God! Thank you, Emil!” 

The Medical Hologram remained motionless for a moment, but then, upon Enoch’s cheerful gesturing, returned the hug somewhat stiffly. The ENH gave him a thumbs up.

“I’m only fulfilling my duties, Miss Musiker.”

Raffi let him go and wiped at her eyes. 

“Can I… can I see him?”

She threw a glance across Emil’s shoulder and at the occupied biobed she could recognize through sickbay’s closed sliding doors.

Lacking his usual coat pockets, the hologram folded his hands and weighed his head.

“He’s barely awake and on strong medication. However, a short visit from a friend may be beneficial to his recovery.”

When all of the holos started towards sickbay and even Emmet heaved himself out of his chair, Emil shot out a flat hand. “I meant _Miss Musiker_ ,” he clarified.

Disappointed murmuring and a Spanish expletive filled the mess hall. Raffi had to smile.

While the holograms dispersed, Emil accompanied her to sickbay, but he motioned her through to the patient cubicle and discreetly stayed behind in the lab.

When Raffi approached the bed, Rios looked surprisingly whole. The damage was mostly invisible under the medical blanket, except for the bulky shape of splints around his legs and hips. He was still getting oxygen, and his messy curls looked darker against his usually tan skin, pale now from blood loss. 

The biobed was whirring softly underneath him, busily keeping Rios stable with hypo-infusions and holographic micro-repairs. Cris’ heartbeat pulsed softly on the monitor on the cubicle wall, and Raffi was infinitely glad to see its steady rhythm. When the alien life form had moved the container out of the way and they’d pulled Cris out, his pulse had been erratic, and he’d stopped breathing altogether by the time they got him to sickbay. His legs- ... Raffi pushed the memory of bones sticking through blood-smeared skin and feet pointing in the wrong direction out of her mind. He would be okay.

Cris’ eyes fluttered open when she laid her hand on his arm. 

“Hey,” she said softly.

Glazed brown eyes blinked at her; she saw his pupils constrict and dilate as he tried to focus. 

“H-... hey.” His voice sounded like sandpaper.

“How are you feeling, honey?”

Cris licked dry lips and looked around in confusion. 

“I’m not… feeling anything,” he whispered. And then, fear passing in slow-motion across his face, he said, “My- … are my legs still there?”

“Yes,” Raffi said quickly, and her hand drifted to his cheek. “Yes, and you get to keep them. You’ll need more surgery on Star Base Twelve, but Emil said you’ll be fine.”

In response, Rios merely closed his eyes and seemed to have difficulty opening them again. Raffi already thought he’d gone back to sleep when she heard him ask, “What about the… the…”

“Our unfriendly guest?” 

Eyes tired slits, Rios nodded. 

“Steward negotiated that we drop you off on Copernicus for treatment before we take the artefacts back. They agreed. I think they feel sorry about what they did. Steward said they didn’t think that humans were so… breakable.”

Rios huffed weakly. 

Raffi grimaced. She knew it would take several bottles of liquor to drown that feeling of vulnerability that came with a near-loss. But she was willing to wait until Rios was well enough to drink with her. 

“Miss Musiker?”

Emil had silently re-entered the cubicle, clad in his usual crisp white shirt and dark coat. The sight was a relief.

“My apologies, but the Captain needs his rest. If you don’t mind…”

Politely but unmistakingly, the EMH gestured at the exit. 

“Yeah, alright,” Raffi sighed. She bent over Rios who had rallied a little and was looking at the EMH with annoyance. Giving him a peck on his forehead, Raffi met his dark eyes. “Give Emil a break, will you? You may not remember it, but he really saved your life this time.”

Rios frowned and seemed to ruminate on that revelation.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

Raffi waved and left the cubicle, trading places with the tricorder-wielding Medical Hologram. Before the sliding doors closed behind her, she heard a faint “Thank you, Emil,” and when she turned to look, she saw the EMH’s lips curl into an astonished smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, technically, this wasn't an accident, but an attack. But I don't think Rios cares much about the difference. (Sorry, Cris!)


	28. 29. I Think I Need A Doctor (The Musketeers)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: #29 Reluctant bed rest 
> 
> Still posting Whumptober fics when, technically, it’s already Febuwhump month. *shakes head at self*
> 
> But only two more, and I will be done!

Athos pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing deeply.

“How do you do it, Aramis?”

From his bed in the infirmary, eyes closed against a raging headache, Aramis murmured, “I usually hide his boots.”

“Not this time!” 

One bed over, d’Artagnan swung his legs over the side and reached for said boots, trying to squeeze into them in spite of one heavily bandaged foot.

“D’Artagnan!” Athos growled at him. “Lay back down or I swear I will _tie_ you to that bed!”

Eyebrows climbing, d’Artagnan stopped wrestling the boot on and looked at Athos in shock.

“You wouldn’t do that…”

Athos shot him an icy glare. “Try me.” 

“If you don’t stay off that foot,” Aramis remarked wearily, eyes still closed, “it will fester and fall off.” 

D’Artagnan swung his disconcerted gaze from Athos to Aramis.

“You said the wound wasn’t serious and that it would heal-“

“If you stay _off_ it and put it _up!_ ”

Athos was losing the last scraps of his patience. He strode over to the Gascon, yanked the boots from him and, without further comment, threw them out the open window on the other side of the room. A Musketeer walking past jumped in surprise but hurried on when he saw Athos’ furious expression. 

Still seething, Athos grabbed his hat from a chair and walked to the door. 

While d’Artagnan just stared at him, Aramis had opened one eye and, rubbing his bandaged forehead, asked blearily, “Where are you going?”

“Fetching reinforcements,” Athos snarled. “And _you,_ ” - he pointed a menacing finger at d’Artagnan - “better be in bed when I’m back!”

As he walked across the garrison yard to fetch his horse, Athos took deep breaths. He was angry. Very angry. But he admitted to himself that part of that anger was born from the residue of fear for his brothers. 

Yesterday’s attack on the Queen’s carriage had come out of nowhere. Four men had broken from the ranks of spectators who’d been flanking the birthday parade. They’d charged at the open carriage, guns blazing, and none of the musketeers had seen it coming. One of the men had aimed his pistol directly at the Queen and Aramis, too late to pull his own weapon, had thrown himself into the line of fire. To Athos’ horror, the bullet had hit him in the head - or so it appeared when Aramis went down, head snapping back, blood splattering the side of the carriage and the horrified Queen’s dress. 

Only after Athos, Porthos and d’Artagnan had taken the four men out, they’d learned that Aramis was still alive and that the ball had merely grazed him, leaving a deep furrow along the side of his head. When he’d regained consciousness in the infirmary hours later, his head stitched up by Lemay, it had been clear that, while he’d been lucky, he was left with a severe concussion that would take him out of commission for quite a while.

It hadn’t helped that one of the attackers had speared d’Artagnan’s foot with his dagger, driving it all the way through skin and flesh till it protruded from the sole. While the blade had missed bone, it was a nasty wound that was at risk for infection, and Lemay, who had seen to both Musketeers on the Queen’s orders, had prescribed strict bed rest for both of the injured men. 

Aramis, stricken with dizziness, nausea and a debilitating headache, had made no effort at disregarding Lemay’s orders, but d’Artagnan was too restless and too impatient to listen. He’d never been good at holding still, and with Aramis down for the count and Porthos having been ordered to return to his duties, responsibility for keeping the Gascon in bed rested on Athos’ shoulders. And Athos’ patience with their youngster’s insensibility was wearing dangerously thin.

Riding through the garrison’s stone arch, Athos almost collided with Porthos and another Musketeer returning from patrol. 

“Ah, good,” Athos called, reining his horse in. “You’re the man I need.”

Porthos took in Athos’ stormy face and raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“D’Artagnan not stayin’ put?”

Athos responded with a huff and an eye roll.

“No. Can you go and sit on him while I fetch help?”

“Yeah, but not long. I have to report to Treville.”

“I’ll make haste.”

They nodded at each other, then Athos clucked his stallion into motion and wove his way through Paris as quick as its crowded streets allowed.

*************

When he re-entered the infirmary an hour later, Athos couldn’t suppress a certain amount of glee when he stepped aside to let his “reinforcements” pass. D’Artagnan was once more out of bed and hobbling around the room, but his face rippled through a highly amusing sequence of expressions as Constance Bonnacieux, hands on her hips and thunder in her eyes, appeared in front of him.

“Charles d’Artagnan, _what_ do you think you’re doing?”

He froze for a moment and seemed to have difficulty retrieving his speech.

“I had to… I was only-”

“...going back to bed, is what you were going to say, I suppose?” 

Her flashing eyes betrayed that it wasn’t a question at all. Athos thought that she sounded disturbingly like Treville. And, certainly enough, her tone had a similar effect: as much as d’Artagnan tried to cling to an air of defiance, it slipped under Constance’s glare. Instead, caught in his braies and swaying on one healthy foot, the Gascon looked increasingly embarrassed. 

Athos heard a soft chuckle from underneath the arm Aramis had protectively draped over his eyes. 

“I’d listen to her,” he commented in the punch-drunk voice of someone nursing a terrible headache. “She’s slapped people for less.”

Athos smirked. 

_Aramis would know._

“But I’m really not that-” 

D’Artagnan broke off, his last surge of resistance crumbling as Constance pointed sharply at the bed.

“In there. Now.”

Muttering something unintelligible under his breath, d’Artagnan resigned and tottered back to his cot. Constance gave a small puff of satisfaction and proceeded to unpin her hat and take off the cape she was wearing. She wasn’t planning on going anywhere, and Athos was glad for it.

Although still married to the cloth maker Bonnacieux, her love affair with d’Artagnan was an open secret, and she had not hesitated to follow Athos to the infirmary when she’d heard about the Gascon’s injury. Her self-confidence, her deft nursing skills and the firm hold she had over d’Artagnan made her the perfect candidate for wrangling this particularly difficult patient into submission. And, frankly, Athos had better things to do. Like calm the remaining fizzes of shock at nearly losing Aramis with a few sips of Merlot. 

“Where’s Porthos?” Athos asked as he watched Constance tuck a pouting d’Artagnan back into bed.

“He had to-“ Aramis started wearily, but stopped and winced as the door was flung open. His head had to truly hurt. 

“Had to report to the Capt’n,” Porthos finished the sentence for him, frowning at Aramis and then nodding a greeting at Constance who returned it with a quick smile. 

“Thought the idiot would’ve given up on tryna escape,” he rumbled, scowling. “But apparently Aramis isn’t the only one whose head needs fixin’.” He threw a sinister glare at d’Artagnan and stepped close to Aramis’ bed to gently wipe the back of his hand over his brother’s shielding forearm. “Ye a‘right, Aramis?”

Aramis slid his arm off his face and brushed his hand over Porthos’ armour as he let it drop.

“I’m fine, Porthos.” The smile he fabricated would have been more convincing if it had reached his bloodshot eyes. 

“You don’t look fine.”

Porthos’ worry was once more at complete odds with his martial appearance, and Athos’ heart went out to the big man. He, too, was still suffering through the aftermath of near-loss. 

Constance, perceptive as ever, turned away from d’Artagnan - indignant, but settled - and reached over to brush the dark Musketeer’s arm.

“I’ll look after him. After both of them.”

Porthos blinked and grunted roughly. 

“If ‘e gives you any trouble, send for me. ‘e’s not much better than d’Artagnan at restin’.”

Aramis’ mouth curled into a fond little smile, but he didn’t contest his best friend’s words. For now, however, Athos didn’t expect the marksman to even consider getting up. His long recovery after Savoy had taught him not to take a head injury lightly, and Athos doubted he would even be able to stand on his own at the moment. 

_God, they’d been so lucky to have him still._

“You have to leave?” Athos asked Porthos.

“Yeah, and the Capt’n wants you back at evening muster as well. Said these two don’t need a nanny.” He huffed. “He should know better.” 

“I’ll stay as long as I’m needed,” Constance offered. Athos saw that she was wearing one of her simpler, more practical dresses. She’d taken a moment to change when he’d asked her to come, and Athos was once more grateful for her practicality and her unquestioning loyalty that was not only born from her affection for d’Artagnan, but also from a firm friendship with all of the _Inséparables._

“Thank you, Constance.” Athos dipped his head at her in a gesture of gratitude. 

Porthos strode to the door, opened it to leave - and froze. He stared at something and then quickly stepped aside, bowing. 

The Queen stepped over the threshold.

Accompanied by two palace guards who grimly took their posts outside, she looked magnificent: Even well into her pregnancy, she had retained her grace and elegance, a sky blue and silver dress flowing sensually down her youthful body. Cheeks rosy, a delicate tiara in her blonde hair, she entered the infirmary with an excited look in her eyes.

Athos looked at her in confusion as he, too, bowed reflexively. Quickly, his mind ran through a number of scenarios that might have brought Anne of Austria to the garrison.

When the Queen’s bright gaze settled on Aramis, he knew.

Behind him, he heard d’Artagnan stammer in surprise: “Your majesty, what…?”

“I felt compelled to inform myself about the health of the Musketeer who saved my life today,” she explained, stepping closer and halting at the foot of Aramis’ bed. 

Constance moved aside with a quick curtsy, and Aramis, for the first time today, had opened his eyes fully and was staring at the queen with an interesting mixture of disbelief and reverence.

Inwardly, Athos rolled his eyes.

“And I felt his bravery warranted a personal visit,” the Queen continued, and, briefly taking her eyes off Aramis, carefully amended: “ _All_ of your bravery. If it hadn’t been for my loyal Musketeers, France would be without a queen and their future king as of now.”

While d’Artagnan awkwardly made sure that his braies were covered by the blanket, Porthos exchanged a quick, puzzled glance with Athos and, shrugging, resorted to standing guard by the door.

“How is my brave savior?” 

The Queen smiled brightly at Aramis who, with Constance’s aid, had scooted up in his bed and was leaning back against the pillows stuffed behind his back. Athos groaned silently at the blatant look of adoration on his brother’s face. Somehow, the room seemed to have shrunk to hold nothing but Aramis and his royal visitor, gazes locked - hers coy, his rapt - and everyone else had ceased to exist. 

_Could they be any more obvious?!_

Athos wanted to slap Aramis up the head; instead, he cleared his throat and said cooly: “He is fine, your majesty. Concussed, and...” He glared at Aramis. “... _not thinking clearly,_ but Doctor Lemay is convinced that a week of bedrest will restore him to his full capacities.”

_No pun intended._

Across the room, Athos saw Porthos and d’Artagnan frown at each other. They clearly sensed that something was going on, something they weren’t privy to, and for the umpteenth time Athos cursed the sense of premonition that had made him check on the Queen at the monastery six months ago to find her entangled with…

“Aramis,” the Queen spoke into his brooding thoughts. “Are you being treated well? Is there anything you require?”

In the next bed over, d’Artagnan drew a mildly pouty face at being left out of the question. 

“I am receiving the best care,” Aramis replied in a weakened voice while his hand dramatically went to his bandaged head. “Constance is looking after me. And after d’Artagnan. Her nursing skills are, as your majesty knows, lauded even by the royal physician.”

“I’ll take care of him, your majesty,” Constance reassured her. “There is no need to worry. But I’m afraid he needs to rest now. Doctor’s orders.”

Once more, Athos was grateful for Constance’s presence of mind. The only one besides Athos who knew about Aramis’ affair with the Queen, she was as eager as he was to end this all too obvious visit by a lover’s sickbed before d’Artagnan and Porthos could catch on.

If they hadn’t already. 

The magnetic pull between Athos’ _stupid_ brother and the young sovereign was unmistakable. Regal and majestic as she usually was, here, in this moment, her face lit by relief and a moment of rare happiness, Athos could see the young girl in her, lithe and beautiful and joyful, and it was Aramis who had that effect on her.

In turn, the marksman’s eyes shone with an earnest devotion, a depth and honesty to his expression that he only carried when in the presence of the Queen. As much as Athos didn’t want to see it: He was bearing witness to true love, but one that could never be.

“Your majesty?” Constance repeated. “He really needs his rest. We can inform you on his well-being if you would like.”

The Queen seemed to have difficulties tearing herself loose. “No. Yes! Yes, Constance, please do.”

Turning back to Aramis, she extended her hand. 

“I will be forever grateful for your sacrifice and protection, Aramis,” she said solemnly. 

Wincing, Aramis sat up and grasped her hand to plant a kiss on it that lingered too long to be chaste.

Athos gnashed his teeth.

“Always,” Aramis said softly, looking up at the woman he definitely should not be so deeply infatuated with, _good God._

“If you allow, I will have a Musketeer escort accompany you on your way back, your majesty,” Athos said with strained composure, pulling the impossible couple out of their intimacy. “It would make me feel more comfortable to have you well protected after this morning’s events.”

The Queen, flustered, pulled her hand out of Aramis’ and stroked it across her belly.

“Thank you, lieutenant,” she said, recapturing her formality. “But your regiment has done everything I could ask today. The palace guards will ensure my safe return.”

She nodded at the room, her gaze catching on Aramis’ again before she crossed the length of the infirmary. At the door, she paused, and her voice sounded suddenly fragile when she spoke over her shoulder: “I am infinitely glad that none of my Musketeers’ lives were lost today. It would have broken my heart.”

Leaving stunned silence behind, she was gone.

A small gasp slipped from Aramis’ lips, but he disguised it as a noise of pain, clutching his forehead and sinking back into his pillow. Constance, ever the accomplice, helped him lay flat and offered a sip of water.

 _I’m going to kick him_ , Athos thought darkly.

“What the hell was _that?_ ”

Eyebrows raised, Porthos pointed his thumb at the closed door and at the noise of a leaving carriage.

Athos shrugged, as blasé as he could. 

“The Queen wanted to extend her gratitude.”

Instead of a further comment, Porthos brows only climbed higher.

“To Aramis, you mean,” d’Artagnan groused from his bed. In frustration, he kicked the blanket away with his good foot and crossed his arms behind his head. “I might as well have been invisible. What will it take for the court to see me as a true Musketeer?! I’m not a recruit anymore! And I suffered an injury, too!” He lifted his bandaged foot in demonstration.

“Aw…,” Constance said, mockery in her gaze. “Are we a little jealous?”

D'Artagnan pointed one hand at Aramis who had gone back to closing his eyes and rubbing his forehead. 

“She only had eyes for _him!_ What is it with Aramis that even the Queen looks at him as if he’s God’s greatest gift to women! One could think she’s falling a little in love with him - with a Musketeer!”

He huffed and shook his head in exasperation, and although his words weren’t meant seriously, Athos saw Aramis grow paler.

“He took a bullet for her,” Porthos weighed in, looking thoughtful. “You’ve got to give him that.”

“Took a bull- it only _grazed_ him!” D’Artagnan protested. “Look at my foot! It was _skewered!”_

Constance waved dismissively at him with a roll of bandages.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic! Lie still and give me that foot. It needs a fresh bandage.”

Snorting, d’Artagnan pulled his arms out from under his head and crossed them in front of his chest. 

“I’m not being dramatic! Aramis said my foot might fall off.”

“...if you don’t stay _off_ it,” Athos sighed, beleaguered. Apparently, they had looped back to their earlier conflict. But he should be glad. Anything that kept his brothers’ thoughts off the Queen’s conspicuous visit was helpful.

“Aramis?”

There was an unexpected depth to Porthos’ voice when he addressed his best friend again. 

The marksman squinted at him, the return of his headache etched into his features. 

“She was right, you know?” His brown eyes darkened. “What you did was very brave, and we almos’ lost you. But next time use yer pistol instead of yer head, a’right?”

A fierce nod, and Porthos, too, left the infirmary. And while Constance and d’Artagnan continued their bickering and Aramis pretended not to hear it, Athos sank down on a chair and thought that, tonight, he really, _really_ needed a drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, a chapter that ran away from its original intention. This one was supposed to be funny throughout and about d’Artagnan and everyone’s efforts at keeping him still. That’s usually Aramis’ job, and to take him out of the equation, I gave him an injury as well.
> 
> I thought it would be fun to bring Constance into the mix and have her boss d’Artagnan around.
> 
> Then I realized that the Queen would be very worried about Aramis and what awkwardness it would bring if she decided to come and see how he was doing. 
> 
> And that was when the chapter took on a mind of its own and swung away from d’Art and his foot and the comedy. Sorry, kid. Wasn’t on purpose. 
> 
> So now I was left with something that shifted completely in tone and focus mid-chapter. It’s uneven, but I’m leaving it as it is, or I’ll never finish these goddamn Whumptober prompt fills.
> 
> And can someone get poor Athos a stiff drink?


End file.
